


Stairway to Heaven

by flannelcastiel



Series: Heaven 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse of Angel Powers, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angel Castiel, Because not everyone is fully aware of the circumstances that surround the consent, Betrayal, Bisexual Dean, Canonical Character Death, Friendship/Love, Holidays, Homophobia, Jimmy Novak is a vessel, Jock Dean, Light NC-17, Love Confessions, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Public Display of Affection, Season/Series 05, Supernatural Elements, Temporary Character Death, Vessels, Violence, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-04 11:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 111,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelcastiel/pseuds/flannelcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel was content with obedience until his mentor and superior, Anael, revealed a harrowing plot - one in which angels conspired with demons to expedite the apocalypse. The most horrible element of their plan: the use of two young boys whose only fault is their bloodline.</p><p>In an effort to save the humanity, Castiel implants himself in the lives of the Winchester brothers by posing as a senior at their school. What began as a mission to save the world turns into an unexpected journey, one in which a stoic angel learns what it means to be human.</p><p>This work is COMPLETE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is a fic I have been working on for upward of about 8 months. It has been an incredible journey, one that I wouldn't have been able to travel without the help of my partner in crime and best friend [Kenzie](http://epstien.tumblr.com). I love you girl, thank you for the advice, for reading the good AND the bad... and thank you even more for the tough love!
> 
> Also a shout-out to everyone at [The Scribe Network](http://stilinskistiel.tumblr.com/scribes) for being a super awesome support system for all my writer woes.
> 
> Anyone who has ever talked to me about Stairway to Heaven has asked for that one-sentence summary and I've always been at a loss. You might have heard "Oh, it's a season 5 high school AU" or "An AU where Cas is an angel-turned-teenager who falls in love with a seventeen year old Dean - oh and don't forget about the apocalypse!" Really, there is no apt way to describe it. I would just go into reading this like you would a full-on AU fic. The only things that remain constant are events that occurred in season 5, most of which I have twisted to my liking :)
> 
> Reminder that I don't own Supernatural or the characters. Original elements are mine.
> 
> And now we begin...

_ "There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold  
And she's buying a stairway to heaven." _

** -Led Zeppelin, _ Stairway to Heaven _ **

* * *

 

His garrison’s return does not call for great fanfare. It happens often:  leagues of angels ascend from the earthly plane to the celestial one, leaving their posts as other angels take their place. How long have his brothers and sisters walked the earth? A few centuries? Human time seems so trivial when one has existed since near the beginning, like Castiel.

Though there is no celebration, Castiel is thrilled to see his garrison again. He was ordered to stay behind during the last rotation because, well, Castiel is not sure why except that it is what he was ordered to do. There is little room to question the will of the Host.

The murmur of the fountain behind him comforts Castiel. The last two hundred years or so, Heaven has manifested in the Palace of Versailles. It is bearable, though Castiel personally prefers the great temples of Jerusalem. Then again, he is one of the more traditional angels.

There is no denying that this palace is much more grand than the one on earth, though it is a close replica. He stands between two small fields of grass, which are emerald and are sparkling underneath a perfectly warm sun. His wings shift behind him, stretching to taste the heat that is but a celestial manifestation of the actual sun, but warm nonetheless. If he allows his thoughts to manifest it so, he can feel a breeze rustle through the feathers. There are few earthly sensations he enjoyed, when he was stationed there nearly millennia ago, but nature is one of them. The small pieces of freedom he can hold safely without fear. Freedom is not something a soldier is entitled to, especially a soldier of Castiel’s merit.

He is second-in-command, and assumed leadership of his garrison in Heaven’s domain while Anael led them on earth. He is wholly prepared to surrender the role upon Anael’s return, anxious for it even. Castiel does not enjoy meeting with the leaders of the other garrisons and discussing politics and plans. He’d rather follow the orders than create them.

Relief passes through him when he hears a plethora of sound, dozens of pairs of wings fluttering onto the heavenly plane. He smiles when he sees his garrison standing in formation, all still wearing their vessels. He contrasts against them, in his true form (though he has condensed it _much_ smaller in order to not stand out sorely) and his white meditation robes. He steps closer, and the female at the forefront of the arrowed formation approaches him as well. It is Anael, he realizes, and bows his chin.

“Anael,” he says, and he fills her name with all the loneliness he has felt.

She touches her human hand to Castiel’s cheek and smiles. He meets her eyes as she says his name, sounding so different through the female’s vocal chords, but still herself. “Castiel. I have missed you all these years.”

“And I you.” He smiles again and Anael drops her hand. He regards the other members of his garrison politely. He considers most friends, since he has existed along side them since the beginning. Uriel is the only one who Castiel does not regard immediately as a friend, unless probed. He is humorous, but cruelly so at times. Many of his stories of humorous merit are at the expense of humanity, which Castiel does not think God would appreciate.

The garrison settles into Heaven quickly and all continues as it did before. Miracles are performed and souls are saved, new mission plans are sculpted and prophets anointed in their mother’s wombs. Oddly enough, only a few from his garrison choose to shed their human vessels. He finds this strange; after his last rotation during the Holy Wars, he was more than eager to toss his battered vessel away. He missed his wings being spread behind him proudly, his halo glowing unceremoniously bright. He is an _angel—_ an almighty being. Vessels limit angelic power, in Heaven at least. On Earth they are the only conduits to possess _any_ power.

Castiel wonders why God made it so that his most powerful children relied on the weakest.

Among those still wearing their vessels are Rachel and Anael, whom Castiel is closest to in their garrison. They seem estranged from each other, Castiel notes, more so than when Castiel saw them together last, and it confuses him. Heavenly squabbles usually do not last long, save _the_ squabble between Michael and Lucifer, and it must be years after their return when Castiel hears fighting from the palace center.

It is discourteous to eavesdrop, but he is drawn to discover the source of their extended dispute. The marble floors reflect the glow of his halo, so he cannot go too close.

They fight in the Nucleus. In the center of Heaven—all Heaven, including all the Heaven-parallel domains that humans call paradise—is an orb. It glows brighter than a sun, but its colors are blue and white and it is cold to the touch. Though it fits in the palace, it contains each soul that is in Heaven. It is the literal power source for each and every paradise, and each angel’s Grace as well. God initially created the angels in an explosion of pure, fiery will, but it was human souls that keep them all-powerful.

Castiel flattens himself against the palace wall and carefully peels his eyes around a sharp corner, and he is looking into the deep room. White and blue flames flick almost wildly from the Nucleus. To Castiel’s surprise, Rachel has finally shed her human vessel and is dressed in her robes. Anael has not, and she is still wearing her earthly attire, which confuses Castiel more than her simply continuing to wear her vessel. Sometimes angels choose to keep them because they fear that a proper one will have not been born (or of an appropriate age) by the next mission. But Anael does not deviate at all from earthly mannerisms and it baffles Castiel at times, even though she is roughly the same angel he knew before.

Auburn hair dances around Anael’s face, the white and blue lighting her all too familiar fury.

“I cannot conceive that you, Rachel, would still follow after what you heard,” she whispers.

“I heard, and I wanted confirmation. I did not want to know that you questioned God’s plan,” Rachel replies evenly, but her halo brightens, signaling that she is equally irate.

“It is not God’s plan to use children—”

“You claim to know God’s will? What makes you so enlightened, above the rest of us?” Rachel demands.

Castiel feels dangerously out of place listening to something he does not need to hear. If he were questioned about Anael’s loyalties, he would be forced to turn her in. He cannot bear—he cannot _exist_ knowing that he led to Anael’s banishment, or worse, death. He goes to walk away, but Anael’s voice draws him back.

“I don’t know what God wants, but neither do the archangels. What I do know is that humanity is so much more better than us. God was right to favor them, to order us to love them above them—and I do.”

“Humanity is flawed, Anael.”

“And so are we!” she exclaims. “Look at our brothers, how they bicker and claw for control of the Host—”

“This is blasphemy and I do not wish to hear any more!”

“You understood, Rachel.” Anael’s voice is softer. “I know you did, when you wore the vessel. When we were on earth. Then you feared the humanity blossoming within yourself, so you cast away your vessel so you wouldn’t feel the turmoil.”

“And you desire to question every move you make on Heaven’s behalf?” Rachel questions. “You desire that turmoil?”

“I have none,” Anael answers. “Not anymore.”

There is a flutter of wings, and Rachel is gone. He watches Anael’s shoulders fall forward in defeat. He does not expect her to speak again.

“Come, Castiel.”

And he does, but not quietly.

“What was that about? Tell me, Anael.” She is his superior, but there is complete cause for him to reprimand her.

“I will,” she promises. He is now standing in front of her, where Rachel’s feet stood, to the right of the Nucleus. He cannot deny that he is drawn to its power and the souls within. Anael motions to it, and it surprises him win the light dims, the flames dissipate, and it becomes a globe of glass. “Let me show you something first. Lay your hand there.”

He does, and then the globe explodes with light.

Castiel realizes that they are on earth, walking in a soul’s memories. He walks beside Anael down a narrow and cracked sidewalk as the sun—the true sun, even though it’s merely a memory—in a suburban area. It’s foreign, given it’s been several hundred years since he’s seen anything but glimpses of earth through the Nucleus.

Even though the memory is quite tame, it’s tainted with fear and pain and remorse. Castiel does not grasp why, until the memory reveals its holder pulling a gleaming knife and examining under the sun.

“This soul was possessed by a demon,” Anael confirms Castiel’s rising suspicion, walking adjacent to him.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“There is more,” she says simply, so he waits.

The demon stops and stows its knife, looking out into an open lawn. It’s covered with toys, ones in the shape of machinery and animals and other things that Castiel does not recognize.

He looks at Anael, who does not look away from the expanse of the lawn. Castiel glances back, just as the front door opens wide and children flush through the front.

Brothers, Castiel realizes. They are similar in coloring and the taller one holds the other’s hand as they run toward a grouping of toys that includes a plastic horse. The demon merely watches, and makes no move to retrieve the knife. The demons thoughts leak into the soul’s, and it’s clear that it is a reconnaissance mission and the knife is for protection.

From what, Castiel cannot tell.

“This is the memory of a soul harvest from a captured demon,” Anael finally says. “The demon was an agent of Azazel. The yellow-eyed demon.”

“I recall Azazel; he is the equivalent to Lucifer’s General,” Castiel says.

“Yes. Apparently this demon has been watching over the children… for years.” Anael takes a small step forward and raises her hand, and the landscape changes rapidly in short intervals.

It is winter and the children’s mother fastens the eldest’s coat while the father holds the other’s mittened hand; it is spring and raining—the mother holds the youngest, now a bundle of blankets, while the father holds an umbrella over their heads and the older brother climbs into their automobile with difficulty. All of these moments occur, and the demon stands in the same place, watching, with a knife hidden out of sight.

“Why does Azazel care about them?” Castiel asks, and the landscape freezes. It is fall and pleasantly cool.

“Because, the youngest one—he is _chosen_.”

“By Azazel?”

Anael shakes her head solemnly. “No, by Lucifer.”

Castiel’s eyes widen and he stares at the house. “I do not follow—”

“As we speak, or rather, as this demon stands and watches this house, Azazel has breached the home’s interior. He is in the child’s nursery, and he is dripping demon blood into his mouth.”

“Demon blood,” Castiel murmurs. “Does he intend to make the child—a demon?” Of all the ways to create a demon, infecting a human with demon blood is the most difficult. It requires years of temptation, until the human will voluntarily drink demon blood in copious quantities, until it’s too potent in the human’s veins for he or she to remain human.

“Not precisely,” Anael sighs. “It’s about creating… an agreeable environment for possession.”

Castiel does not comprehend. “For a demon?”

“For Lucifer.”

The pieces fall into place, and the memory shatters. They are standing together before the Nucleus once again—Castiel retreating from the glowing center as it roars to a new life.

“Vessel—the youngest is Lucifer’s vessel!” Castiel exclaims.

Anael confirms Castiel’s statement with a nod. “And his brother is Michael’s.”

_As it is on earth it shall be in Heaven._

It is the golden commandment that His creations on earth shall manifest in Heaven. It is the reason that all the paradises are merely glorified reflections of humanity’s best memories; the reason that Heaven itself is the grandest palace on Earth and not filled with streets of gold and pearly gates as the Judeo-Christians believe. Because Angels must worship God, the Heavenly realm must worship His creations.

The same goes for prophecy; the prophecy says that the two brothers shall walk the earth in two brothers. When they would be born, and to whom, remains a mystery for many angels. But the captured soul knew its possessor’s secrets, knew Azazel’s plans.

The soul knew Lucifer’s vessel and, by virtue of familial connection, Michael’s.

“Do the archangels know?” Castiel whispers.

“Of course,” Anael says. “They told the garrison leaders of the children, and that we must begin the search for them immediately. Our garrison is chosen, Castiel.” Her face is unhappy.

“Then we mustn’t delay; it is evident that the demons know where the vessels are. They could be killed—”

“They are safe from the demons, for now at least,” Anael interjects. “It’s us that endanger them.”

He glares. “Pardon?”

“Heaven wants to kick-start the apocalypse, Castiel,” she urges him quietly. “They have—they don’t know I know—but Raphael has been directing many other seraphs, including Zachariah, to help demons break the seals.” Her voice drops. “To free Lucifer.”

“No,” Castiel breathes. “That’s not how God commanded it be.”

“Yet, they command _us,_ to follow them blindly into this war.” Anael reaches for him, to touch Castiel’s cheek, but he pulls away.

“I am not blind. I see the end.”

“The end is paradise, yes,” Anael concedes. “But the earth shall burn as a result. And _we_ will throw oil into those flames. God asked us to protect humanity, not destroy it.”

“It was always the plan! To destroy it, so that we could rebuild it. Make it perfect, just like Heaven.”

“Heaven isn’t real. It’s just a mirror of the good things, Castiel. Do you remember earth at all?”

“It was a mission, an unpleasant one,” Castiel replies indignantly. “Being in a vessel does nothing to alter my resolve to follow orders—you have obviously been affected and I advise you to discard your vessel immediately.”

“You do not order _me,_ Castiel,” she growls and steps toward him. “I am your superior.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Then _order_ me to rebel, Anael, if you have the audacity.”

She softens, but it seems more like a flinch, as if Castiel hits her.

“I would never ask you to fall, not for me,” she whispers. “I only ask you to consider all I’ve told you and…” she glances toward the Nucleus. “Consult the souls. Your heart will guide you.”

“I do not have a heart,” Castiel deadpans, willing himself to take those words as truth.

Her lips twitch upward. “Believe me, my brother. You do.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Anael’s request was just that: a request. Castiel knows that he was not ordered to pay visits to the Nucleus, but he is curious. Curiosity has never been one of his strongest traits, but many things have changed. He has learned that Heaven is manipulating the war just as much as the demons, if not even more so. He remembers seeing those innocent children just playing as if their entire life revolved around smiles and laughter in the sun.

Sometimes Castiel sees small glimpses of humanity, but mostly in the paradises. There are some he goes to simply to clear his head. Among his favorites is a devout Catholic nun’s paradise. She was born in the mid 18 th century and her heaven is a field just outside her convent. There is a lake with a small beach and she enjoys burying her toes in the sand and watching fish toss from the water and create ripples in the blue water. It’s simple and perfect.

Castiel believes that this beauty is exclusive to paradise, but is proved wrong when he enters the center of Heaven by himself, to touch the Nucleus. He touches millions of souls, perhaps billions, in the expanse of a few seconds. Moments of joy fill him, ignite his Grace and make his wings extend to their full span. He  _feels,_ he feels  _everything_ and he gasps when he releases it. The tremors of humanity pulse through him and he has to sit on the floor to regain his posture.

He feels human, too human for comfort, and is relieved when it fades.

But he does not forget any memory, no matter how brief.

These solitary visits occur for several more years and they become a guilty pleasure. Castiel does not learn much about humanity, he only feels the emotions and flashes of remarkable sights and sounds. Some souls lived a thousand years ago; some are as new as the breath he takes when he feels them. But the feeling of life never changes, no matter the century.

Anael only speaks to him briefly as they plan their mission to earth. Sometimes Castiel will catch her eyes going astray, looking to Castiel for direction. He will supply her with the advice he is capable of providing, but it occurs to him later on that she is not looking for advice. She is looking for camaraderie. Someone who will blasphemy alongside her.

Castiel does not want to rebel against heaven, but he cannot condone what they plan to do. The boys, Dean and Samuel Winchester, are not pawns in a great war—the _final_ war. One will die, the other left to grieve his brother. That pains him more than words can describe and it's not even _angelic_ grief. It’s human, and he does not know how he’s feeling it.

Castiel is emerging from one of his visits to the Nucleus, and once he is aware, Anael is standing before him in a panic.

“They know,” she breathes in a panic, and she grabs Castiel by his robe. “They _know_.”

“What?” Castiel’s voice is frail, filled with the slightest panic as well.

“They have been watching us, _you._ They tapped your thoughts somehow, through the Nucleus—” Anael breaks off and stares at the dancing orb of fire and light. “They are going to _kill_ you.”

“But I have done nothing!” Castiel whispers furiously. “I have only _thought_.”

“Thinking is enough to defile a soldier, you know that.” Anael reaches for Castiel, for the first time in years. And he allows her finger to curl against his cheek, amorous and comforting. “I will not be far behind you Castiel, but you must hurry.”

“Hurry?” he breathes.

“To find them. The garrison is going to be deployed soon enough—and you must hide them first, protect them. _Anything._ I know you have changed. You have touched that soul, the soul we harvested from the demon, time upon time.”

“How do you know?”

“I have too, and I can almost feel you, ingrained into the memory. You watch them.” She smiles and closes her eyes. He sees a tear roll down her cheek—tears are a human indication of either sadness or happiness. Castiel cannot discern, even with the smile, which emotion possesses Anael now.

“Anael,” Castiel says and lays his hand over hers. “Thank you, for…for showing me.”

With his gratitude, he pushes off the ground with his wings and flies down the corridor at the highest speed he can reach. He plunges through the clouds, through the wall of magic that divides Heaven from the universe, and he is in the earth’s atmosphere in seconds.

He flies below the clouds, a beam of light—a shooting star—to all on the ground. He searches, for his purpose, and for his vessel. Then he will find the Winchesters.

 


	2. Outsider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean looks up, and Castiel swears Dean can see him, but that cannot be true. He is looking toward the tree line, the dimly lit sky, for guidance. Still, the angle makes it feel as if those eyes are staring straight into him, past the veil, past each carefully built wall Castiel erected. Dean’s eyes are very wide and take on a new glimmer when the sun catches them. They are impossibly green. Castiel’s eyes go wide with surprise, astounded by his own thoughts, when Dean pulls down his sleeve roughly, enough to hide any evidence of the burn. “I’m fine."
> 
> Warnings: Minor reference to past drug use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read, kudo'd, commented, or messaged me about the prologue! For the feedback I've received, I'll post this chapter a day early. And this is a REAL chapter, so you can expect right around this word count per chapter for the next several weeks :)
> 
> Also, someone asked me if they had extra content (for instance, a playlist) and they wanted me to see on Tumblr (which, btw, blows my mind omg) what would be the best way. Well you can either tag "purifiedean" which is my current URL, or you can tag it "sth fic" and I'll start tracking that tag as well :))))

James Novak is a devout altar boy from Pontiac, Indiana, and a boy he truly is. Castiel has vessels before, but none had ever carried the weight of boyhood as this one does. Physically, the vessel is nearly grown, but the mind within is innocent. Castiel nearly feels remorse for so easily taking James, by stating his need for a vessel. Castiel did not lie, he simply embellished the truth. Yes, he is an angel of the Lord. Yes, he is serving what he believes to be God’s will. Did his brothers concur with Castiel’s interpretation of God’s will? Absolutely not.

Castiel demonstrated his powers as an angel, flickered pieces of his Grace upon the soul of James, and performed miracles through the young man. Upon proving himself, it was impossible for the faithful child of God to say no when Castiel asked for his body, to perform God’s work. There was nothing cruel about not disclosing the truth, about the great challenges James’ body would weather and the great possibility of death (at the hands of _other_ angels), because it would only instill fear in the boy’s mind. In ignorance, Castiel is capable of soundly tucking away the human consciousness and taking full control, but he sees the outcome of his misson and fears his own fate. And what would happen if Castiel were destroyed in this vessel? What would become of the boys’ soul?

So, in an act of mercy, Castiel did what had only been done millennia ago. He banished James’—Jimmy’s—soul from his body. It would now be safe in Heaven, while the library of Earthly knowledge remained in the shell of the vessel. Castiel hopes he can honor Jimmy’s sacrifice and defy the odds in order to stop his brothers.

His brothers, whom have betrayed every possible moral guideline set by God, hunt him for _his_ defiance. Taking a vessel allows Castiel to hide among the humans better, but he must still be careful. Utilizing his Grace often will make him a beacon, a light in a foggy sea, so he must act as humanly as possible while taking on a seemingly impossible mission—to prevent the apocalypse his brothers begun.

Through the Nucleus of Heaven, the hub of all divine creation, he witnessed the vessels of Michael and Lucifer. Two brothers who glowed with love, true dedication; it was a love Castiel never and would never experience with his own family, except maybe with Anael. Prophecy revealed that fire would reign upon the earth from the fingertips of the adolescent boys

It is good fortune that Zachariah and the others had not found the vessels yet. Once he breached the cloud bank and could touch the millions of consciousness’ walking about, Castiel knew he had the upperhand and was able to identify their location in a matter of weeks. There was a reason he was considered one of the most powerful seraphs in Heaven.

Taking a vessel depletes almost all his power. Though Jimmy’s body is light, Castiel struggles to make his wings work with his new form. His wings flutter, but when he reaches his destination, he fumbles awkwardly and grips for the nearest thing on which to cling, then stores his translucent wings flush against the vessel’s spine. No one saw his sudden appearance, but Castiel remains cautious as he finds a sidewalk and begins to stride without aim. As most humans seem to do.

Lawrence, Kansas is as quaint as the town Jimmy was from; though Castiel spent his existence observing humans, it had been several centuries since he found himself walking among them. He remembered his last vessel was a simple farmer in the Roman Empire, just before its fall. Demons had been at work then, and even angels could not prevent them from taking it and inflicting plague.

Castiel is aware that all was different, and that the world buzzed faster and with more sin than ever before. Still, this small town is a taste of peace. Few automobiles drive past him as he walks at a stiff and even pace. It is near the end of summer, so there are many children bustling in the front yards of houses—one after another, all seemingly identical—and adults tending to gardens and trimming shrubs. Very quaint indeed.

He finds the house of the chosen vessels rather quickly, using the glimpse from the demon’s memory as a guide through the neighborhood. Things have changed—different landscaping due to time and growth. Time moves different in Heaven and Castiel idly wonders how much the vessels have grown.

The home looks slightly older than all the rest with sky-colored vinyl and a cracked sidewalk leading up to the worn front door. Castiel considers meeting them now, but realizes he cannot reveal his being an angel yet. Perhaps not at all. They must remain unaware of the mere existence of his kind; although it _would_ be easier to be upfront, Castiel fears that too much knowledge might make them sympathetic towards angels since he is one. It is very important that the brothers do not trust anything supernatural. Imperative, in fact.

He pauses at the mouth of the sidewalk, doubting his current course of action. He cannot just knock on their doorstep and encroach upon their lives without causing suspicion. His body is older, and the boys’ parents might actually see Castiel as a threat. He exhales a sigh and passes the house. He was a patient being, but desperate to protect the vessels as well.

Patience and desperation are two difficult things to juggle at once, he decides.

 

* * *

 

Castiel waits until nightfall, when the birds have gone silent and insects begin to hum soft melodies on frequencies that humans cannot hear. Though he is adamant that he will keep his angel abilities dormant until the time comes—since it's best to remain inconspicuous _and_ preserve his power since his brothers have surely cut him from the Nucleus by now—he must go to his charges. He focuses on the Winchester house, remaining invisible as he steps from the air onto the flush green lawn. All inside remain asleep, Castiel senses, and he finds the time appropriate enough to seek out the brothers.

He discovers they sleep in separate rooms. He seeks out the younger of the two, the one who is unfortunate enough to have demon blood in his veins, making him perfect to harbor Lucifer when he comes of age. 

Replaced by wariness is shock, when Castiel realizes that the boy whom he observed from Heaven is not the same as the one he looked upon now, in a sleeping state. Samuel Winchester’s face has grown more angular and his hair is a little shorter. He snores lightly, so innocent, and Castiel presses his mind against the boy’s and perceives his dreams. They are filled with bright colors of happiness and the visage of a young lady with dark brown hair and eyes that have a stare that is more predatory than sweet, but the waves in Samuel’s mind suggest that this is a quality he values and his mind dips into new waters. Castiel withdraws to give him privacy and decides the angels have not found him yet.

Castiel proceeds to the next room, finding a light is still on. He is thankful that he stayed invisible and is surprised that the eldest was not sound asleep as Castiel originally thought. Though he is close, his body sprawled across a disheveled pile of clothes and blankets. Castiel blinks as he registers that the older brother, Dean, is also not as young as the harvested soul saw him. His body, partially buried beneath a thick comforter, is long and lithe. Castiel tilts his head curiously because his body is at the same maturity as Castiel’s vessel. The differences in physique are overtly visible. Dean’s thighs are thick, built upon years of physical stress. Humans train their bodies as angels train their minds, and as far as he can tell Dean is exceptionally fit for his age. Even his arms, which are hidden by an ill-fitting shirt, are slightly pronounced. Castiel idly looks down at his vessel’s body. It still possesses traces of lipids from Jimmy’s infanthood. There is very little muscle, except in his chest, because Jimmy was not of the athletic type. He was much like Castiel; he trained his mind and sought to perform God’s will.

The differences in their bodies enlighten Castiel to the differences in their thoughts as well. A brief glance around Dean’s bedroom reveals trophies, things angels considered objects of vanity, which are certainly marks of his athleticism. He will have to lay aside his preconceptions in order to earn Dean’s trust. He panics for a moment and realizes that he _will_ have to become Dean’s _friend_ in order to do so. Biblically, friendship and trust are not mutually inclusive but Castiel knows that in his current vessel it will be the easiest way to gain the boys’ trust.

Friendship begins with love. He loves them already; from the moment he laid eyes on their sparkling, vulnerable souls through the spectacles of the Nucleus, he loved in a way he did not understand until he saw them with his own eyes. It is not a human love. It is the kind of love God gave angels to keep them from killing each other, though that has done very little good in Heaven. 

He sighs tiredly. Angels do not tire, but Castiel’s mind is wary of the days, weeks, and months to come. His vessel being of the same age as Dean will help his mission greatly, but he is no fool. It will not be easy.

Dean stirs slightly in his sleep, snoring as his mouth drops open and a small trail of saliva spills from the corner onto his pillow. Castiel takes a step forward, confident that Dean is unaware of his presence, and gives a snap of his fingers. The sound alone causes Dean to stir more, but his lamp is off now, and it will be easier for Dean to fall into a deep sleep.

Castiel decides to not touch Dean’s dreams and leave. He had pressing matters to attend to.

 

* * *

 

There is the earthly plane, and then there are others parallel to it. Some planes are solely dedicated to the souls which have not passed through the Barrier. The one Castiel is on is one that belonged to a Native American spirit centuries ago, and the spirit has long passed on and it is void of any consciousness. Castiel uses it to draw sigils on the Winchester house, sigils that would be visible on this plane alone but work on any plane.

He chooses which sigils to paint on the house carefully; it would not be advantageous to ward the house against angels, because he would also be warding it against himself. Instead he uses symbols that will shield them from the Host. Divine power alone will not find their location if he is able to reflect curious waves of celestial energy away. Castiel paints them in his blood for good measure.

Once the house if adequately covered, Castiel uses slithers of his Grace to seal the sigils in place. It will be very difficult to use any other Grace to unbind the sigils, as Castiel’s is the ultimate key. And only in death will his Grace be manipulated into revealing the Winchesters.

Time passes differently on the other plane, and the sun is already filtering through the trees bordering the property. He is surprised, when he passes the thin barrier back to the Earthen plane, to find Samuel stepping through the front door. Castiel quickly pulls up his veil, making his vessel incorporeal, and watches. Dean follows behind Samuel, not watching his steps as he goes. He is clicking his thumbs against the cellular device in his hands.

“Hey Sam, Mom’s callin’ for you,” he yells to _Sam_ , who paused in his stride midway on the sidewalk. He is very close to Castiel, and the angel takes advantage of being invisible to examine the youngest boy. His brows are pinching together in annoyance.

“No, Dean, she’s calling for _you_.” Sam listens closer, and Castiel opens his hearing farther to encompass the voice calling from inside the house.

“Dean, get your ass in here and help me with the trash!” a feminine voice intones angrily. Castiel decides this is the voice of Mary Winchester. He would have to further study her later on.

Dean ignores her and peaks up from his phone, peering expectantly at Sam. “You owe me for covering for you sneaking out last week,” he says lowly, but loud enough for his brother to hear.

“But—” Sam starts, cheeks reddening in both surprise and embarrassment. Wordlessly, he stalks past Dean and back in the house.  
Castiel tilts his head at their exchange, wishing he understood human dynamics more clearly. Dean continues down the sidewalk and Castiel decides it’s best that he does not walk through his incorporeal form at the end. Dean is distracted by his phone and doesn’t notice when his shoelace catches in a sidewalk crack. Dean’s balance ripples, his foot twisting awkwardly as he begins to hurl forward. Castiel instinctively moves forward and grabs Dean firmly by his shoulder.

Castiel is not stupid, but he is careless. When an angel is incorporeal and invisible, it is because one has forced the molecules of their vessel to speed up to an unimaginably high velocity. A literal celestial wave of energy walking in a human-shaped form, but invisible to the the human visual cortex. He forgets that his body temperature has risen well over three-hundred degrees, and his hand is still clenching Dean’s shoulder, steadying him. In Dean’s mind, less than two seconds have passed since he tripped, but Castiel calculated that in mere milliseconds, he would be screaming with a blinding pain. Castiel forces himself back and awaits the outcry.

_“Son of a bitch!”_ Dean curses as he crumples forward. Castiel frowns apologetically and stands over Dean, regretful that he cannot apologize for burning him. He should have let go sooner, as not to burn Dean, but he was too distracted—by what, he wasn’t sure. He forces his mind to become void of thought, even regret, as he watches Dean. It is too late to heal him now, as Dean cranes his head around and tears his sleeve up like it, too, has burned him.

The burn is shaped like a hand. When Dean realizes this, he takes his left hand and draws his trembling fingers around the mark. “What the hell...” It is a deep shade of pink, nearly red, and the skin around it flushes irritably. Castiel is briefly relieved that the burn is not as damaging as it could have been, but there will be a scar regardless. 

“Dean?” Castiel glances toward the house, seeing Mary Winchester making her way down the sidewalk with a wary expression. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

Mary Winchester is going to see Dean’s mark and she is going to know. She is _aware_ of the supernatural beings that walk the Earth and she will know Dean’s mark is not natural. Castiel feels despair and even _shame_ as he realizes he might have foiled his mission by exposing Dean to the existence of inhuman things.

Castiel considers revealing himself then, to go against his better judgement and telling them _everything._ Mary Winchester would try to kill Castiel, certainly, but at least they would receive an adequate warning. Castiel was foolish to believe he could ever protect them by himself in the first place. He is an angels, and angels are not singular beings. They work together to perform tasks, and there is only one angel who is all-powerful without the Host by his side. And he is not the Devil.

Dean looks up, and Castiel swears Dean can see him, but that cannot be true. He is looking toward the tree line, the dimly lit sky, for guidance. Still, the angle makes it feel as if those eyes are staring straight into him, past the veil, past each carefully built wall Castiel erected. Dean’s eyes are very wide and take on a new glimmer when the sun catches them. They are impossibly green. Castiel’s eyes go wide with surprise, astounded by his own thoughts, when Dean pulls down his sleeve roughly, enough to hide any evidence of the burn. “I’m fine. Just tripped, is all,” Dean says quietly. Mary lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder, a comforting gesture, except she touches Dean exactly where Castiel left his mark. Dean hisses and pulls away. “Ergh, sorry, my—knee. Kinda hurts.” He deliberately turns and takes her hand with his left. “Shouldn’t walk and text, huh?”

Why is he hiding the mark?

Mary rolls her eyes. “No. In fact, you need to learn to live without that damned thing.” She snatches it from Dean’s hand and he protests, but she simply slides it into his pant pocket. Castiel is in awe as her reproach is replaced by playful affection, her hands smoothing over Dean’s back. Love, he observes. Human love. He nearly forgot what it looked like through human eyes.

Sam comes behind them as they continue down the sidewalk, at the end of which is the main street Castiel used to find his way here. They climb into a white automobile with doors that slide—a mini-van. Castiel blinks and he is in the seat adjacent to Sam. It is his first time in a car and it is trying. How do humans wait so long to reach their destination? 

Dean sits in the front passengers seat, fingers clicking across a display in the console. Music flickers to life all around them and Castiel nods. Music must be utilized to relieve boredom.

After a few minutes, Sam protests against Dean’s musical taste. Dean replies, sharp and amused, that Sam can pick the music in approximately nine months, when Dean goes to college. Sam scoffs at his answer, and Castiel cannot help but let his brows crease. Dean is either incredibly rude or just has an effectively rude sense of humor. Though, Castiel thinks he has no place to ridicule the interactions between two brothers when he is being hunted by his own.

Nine months, Castiel thinks. This means Dean is a senior in his last year of public secondary learning. A split second of calculations informs Castiel that the average school year length is nine months. The current date is August 14th, which might mean that school has not started for the boys yet.

A flare of hope sparks in Castiel’s Grace. He had a window of opportunity, to get close to the boys without being useless behind his veil. He can enroll in school and be their _peer_. Castiel is resolve in his new plan. Everything else will consist of minor details that surely an angel can overcome.

 

* * *

 

The plethora of teenagers and adults is... _daunting._

Castiel remains incorporeal as he follows the three Winchesters through the crowd. Weaving along side them while avoiding other hoards of familial units. The danger of touching them and marking them just as he unfortunately did Dean remains prevalent. If he did not fear losing sight of the brothers, he would have just flown upwards.

They are walking toward a building. Castiel approximates it was built in the mid 20th century and recognizes latin symbols carved into the brick. This was built by Catholic immigrants, he is sure, and it is a school. He catches sight of a large sign at the buildings entrance that reads, _Welcome to St. Michaels School for Boys’ Student Registration Day!_

Clearly Castiel has stumbled upon the right path of destiny, to follow the Winchesters straight to the school which they would be attending—the same school happens to be a school of God.

As he passes through the door, a few meters behind the Winchesters, Castiel lifts the veil and becomes corporal once more.

 

* * *

 

Light filters into the auditorium through colorful stained glass windows, catching in Dean’s hair as if the light were refracting through a haze of vapor below the clouds. It is because his hair is so light, Castiel observes; the sun has stained the darkness out of it. Though he can tell just by a brief glimpse of Dean’s genetic makeup that he possesses more maternal physical traits than paternal, unlike Sam whose hair and eyes are dark. Dean may possess light hair due to an indeterminate amount of time spent in sunlight, but standing next to his mother—with light skin and nearly-golden hair—it’s clear he has inherited her fairness.

His thoughts are unintentionally lost in his observations when the line begins to move. He feels so minuscule, standing in a line to register as a student, as if he is a small human. He halts those negative thoughts quickly; it is apathy toward God’s prized humans that led to his predicament. Each human in here, even if their existences are nowhere near as meaningful as Dean and Sam’s, is God’s handiwork. They are not mere fish or hairless apes, no, they live and breathe free will. They take it for granted, the ability to choose their own path generally without consequences.

It is free will that has saved Sam and Dean thus far from being consumed by the two most powerful angels to have ever walk in heaven.

The sound of a voice shattering his reverie causes Castiel to look up. It’s a stout woman standing about three human strides in front of him, her heavy brow falling as she looks at Castiel. He takes a few steps forward, face placid and unemotional as he regard the woman.

“Paperwork?” she prompts him, and Castiel’s brows furrow.

“No, I am uninterested in a... paper career,” he says hesitantly. “I would like to be a student at this school.”

The woman’s grimace deepens and she leans to her right, peering behind Castiel. He is sure there is only a line behind him, so he asks her, “looking for something?”

“Your parents,” she mumbles.

“Ah,” Castiel replies. It is human custom for those under the age of eighteen to be accompanied by a parent. Becoming a student is essentially a legal transaction, and he realizes he cannot perform it on his own. Without a little manipulation. Castiel peers behind himself and sees that the short line behind him is preoccupied with sheets upon sheets of paper, passing from parents’ to students’ hands. Castiel takes advantage of the brief moment of privacy and presses his index and middle finger together, flush, and then leans across the table to press them into the woman’s forehead. It takes a few milliseconds for Castiel to pulse his own thoughts through the bond, in which the celestial energy within him makes the electric moves into the woman’s mind flicker and backfire, until they are restructured to understand Castiel’s intent. He manipulates her surface thoughts; humans would call it smoke and mirrors. She now believes that Castiel has the appropriate forms filled out and that his parents were present and paid his fees. She indicates as such when the connection breaks and Castiel pulls away.

He tries to contort his lips into a smile, but it is not genuine. He is unaccustomed to human emotion and he knows the smile is forced. However, the woman returns it as her eyes flicker with shock, confusion, and acceptance. She pulls out a form and wets the tip of her pen on her tongue.

“Castiel,” she breathes, thoughtful. “Do you have a last name?”

Castiel does not have a surname. He thinks briefly that humans originally derived their surnames to indicate occupation or heritage. ‘Angel’ would be too obvious of a last name. He has no heritage except that he was crafted by God, and even ‘Godson’ seemed too obvious.

“Novak,” he answers. It is a way, at the very least, to honor his vessel’s sacrifice.

The woman hums a response that reveals nothing of a reaction as she writes down some information. A few minutes pass, but they pass like seconds to Castiel, when she looks up and smiles. “Good luck, Mr. Novak. And welcome to St. Michael’s.”

 

* * *

 

He finds Dean first, who is turning the combination on his locker with a furrowed brow. Castiel was given a locker number and a combination, too, but he did not know how to determine where it was located. That was not of import, anyhow, because keeping the Winchesters safe was a priority. However, it would help for him to adjust and seem as normal as possible. Castiel already has concerns that his ignorance of human interaction would clash with Dean. Sam is another story, but Castiel's vessel is also a few years _older_ than Sam and a connection might be more difficult to form. Dean is his entry-point.

Castiel thinks of the best possible way to approach a complete stranger. He could simply go up to Dean and start a conversation (“Hello, my name is Castiel and I am a new student. It appears you are a student here as well and I would like to become friends.”) but Castiel doesn’t have confidence that friendships begin in such ways. They certainly don’t in heaven. Castiel flicks through numerous other possibilities; when humans fall, often times other humans help them gather their belongings and even help them up, but Castiel does not want to seem weak or incompetent; he considers simply bumping into Dean’s shoulders, but then he wonders if Dean would perceive it as a challenge since they are both male. It is all too frustrating. _Humans_ are frustrating.

A thought crosses his mind, hopeful and fleeting: perhaps honesty would work best. He looks down at the sheet of paper in his hand, his locker number glaring up at him and reminding Castiel of his ignorance. If he simply asked Dean for directions, it would be a passive opportunity to introduce himself.

His mouth is sticky, and he realizes that he is nervous. It is not human nerves that are bothering him, but his vessel reacts as if that is the case. He is anxious because if he fails to gain Dean’s trust, he will only be able to watch Dean from afar. He cannot protect Dean at all times, just by simple observation. He is a warrior, not a guardian angel.

He strides toward Dean, who has managed to open his locker. He pulls his book bag off his shoulder and shoves it inside and makes a small smile that he thinks is private, but Castiel sees. It is a passing thought, but Castiel wonders if Dean is excited about school.

A few meters away, Castiel enters Dean’s line of sight and their eyes meet. Castiel believed their eyes met before, but he knows the difference between a brief coincidental shift in angles and this. Dean truly sees him now, and blinks confusedly as Castiel comes closer.

He is paranoid that his steps are to pointed, to careful, and relaxes his limbs. He is a _human_ and he is a _teenager_. It is difficult to slacken his body—it makes Castiel feel even more uncomfortable in his skin—but Dean continues to stare at him with an indiscernible expression.

“Hello—” Castiel begins and cuts off sharply. He had almost greeted Dean by his name and he chastises himself for nearly giving himself away. He sighs and looks away from Dean, down to the piece of paper in his hands. “Can you help me, by chance? I am searching for my locker—number one-thousand and forty-two?”

“Ten forty-two?” Dean replies in question, and Castiel raises his eyes, finding that Dean seems like he is on the precipice of laughter.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“The ten-forties are up in the science hallway, I think.” Dean is still watching Castiel, and Castiel watches him right back. The eye contact must make Dean uncomfortable because he coughs and looks away. “Um, yeah. You’re new aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am new to Lawrence,” Castiel confirms, reciting the story he created based on a brochure found in the school's lobby. “My parents wanted me to attend St. Michael’s because of its reputation and the staff’s underscored belief that God’s words should remain in the classroom.”

Dean makes a face and shakes his head. “Oh, man, you’re fresh out of bible camp or something. Listen, I’ll show ya’ to your locker, if you tell me your name.” A smile flickers on his lips.

“Castiel Novak.”

Dean pushes his hand toward Castiel, his expression expectant. Castiel’s brows knit together as he watches the hand, wondering if Dean is going to smack him with it. The thought makes him uncomfortable, and he takes half a step backward.

“Dude, you shake it.”

“Oh.” Castiel takes Dean’s hands and squeezes it as their arms move up and down. He remembers that it is a human sign of greeting. Castiel studies the way their hands clasp and he decides that it is also the start of a trusting relationship, to allow one to take the hand that one would normally use to fight, and give it to a stranger. Castiel finds himself smiling at Dean.

“Nice to meet ya, Castiel. Do you go by that? It’s kind of a weird name.”

Castiel frowns. “It is not weird. It’s an _angel’s_ name.”

Dean's brow quirks up, "So I take it you're an angel then, huh?"

"No," Castiel answers quickly. Too quickly? He hopes Dean doesn't registers the denial as a sign of dishonesty.

“Well, since you aren’t an angel, I’m just gonna call you Cas, ‘kay?”

After a brief moment of thought, and harbored relief, Castiel nods. “Yes, Cas is fine.”

Dean’s smile brightens and he closes his locker with push of his arm, and then locks it. “Awesome. I’ll take you upstairs—to your locker I mean.” Castiel thinks he sees Dean’s cheeks flush red, but he hasn’t the slightest clue why.

 

* * *

Castiel loathes being ignorant, but it seems as though Dean is endeared by it. The walk alongside Dean was filled with his words of excitement about his senior year. Castiel listened closely, absorbing as much of Dean’s thoughts and emotions as he can. He learns Dean is captain of the soccer team and he is hoping that he will get some sort of scholarship or be ‘signed’ for his skills. 

They reached the top of the stairs when Dean turned the questions on him.

“So where ya’ from, originally I mean?” Dean asks smoothly.

He truly does not want to lie. Especially not to Dean. But the lie passes his lips, rooted in the library of information stored in Jimmy Novak’s mind. “Pontiac, Indiana.”

“Whoa, that’s a long way to come just to go to some shitty school!”

Castiel shrugs, hoping that Dean’s shock is not any indicator that he does not _believe_ him. “I know not my Father’s true will.”

“That’s some God talk, ain’t it?” Dean mumbles and Castiel glances over to him curiously. He tilts his head. Body language is something Castiel studied during his tours on Earth; the method in which humans carry their bodies holds more meaning than words can suffice. Nevertheless, it is much more difficult to determine what a simple roll of broad shoulders means, when Dean shifts next to him, but Castiel assumes it is discomfort.

“You do not believe in God?” Castiel says, honestly intrigued and not judgmental. He was aware that many humans had lost faith over the years, similarly to his brothers and sisters in Heaven. “You attend a Catholic school.”

“Just ‘cause my mom doesn’t want me in public school. I got into some trouble in middle school,” Dean admits. “Smoked a little too much weed.”

Castiel does not know how to respond, so he just replies, “oh.”

“Don’t worry, I’m clean now. Gotta be for soccer. I’m not _that_ bad of an influence.” Dean’s laughter is genuine, but fades as his pace slows. “God is just an idea, I think. It’s nice for people to believe in something, but I believe in... my family. Friends. What I see, you know?”

“I understand. Blind faith is not easy. I have never seen God’s face, nor do I think I ever will, but I know He is there,” Castiel says, and stops when he senses Dean’s shoulders roll uncomfortably next to him. “I do not mean to preach. My apologies.”

Dean shrugs. “It’s fine, I asked. This is your locker though,” he says, pointing to a locker with _1042_ engraved just above the lock. Castiel stares at the contraption and tentatively raises his fingers to turn the knob. He does not know how to enter the combination and looks to his left. Dean is leaning his shoulder and head against the locker, watching Castiel with unnervingly focused eyes.

“Need help?” Castiel grimaces and nods, stepping back as Dean steps forward. After Castiel gives Dean the combination, it takes mere second for it to click open.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel murmurs and glances to him again. “It was... a pleasure to meet you.” He mimics the gesture Dean made earlier, holding his hand out for Dean to shake. Dean smiles brightly and takes Cas’ hand.

“Same—hey, um, my brother’s waiting for me. I’ll see you around school.”

“Okay,” Cas says in a murmur. He’ll be seeing Dean much sooner than that. “Goodbye, Dean.”

“See ya, Cas,” Dean calls over his shoulder.  
As soon as Castiel is alone, he blinks away, his locker still hanging wide open, seemingly untouched by all hands except Dean’s.

 

* * *

The first day is the day that Castiel learned that St. Michaels requires their students to wear uniforms. It was actually a small miracle, to be able to fall anonymous among the teenage boys. As far as he could tell, his vessel’s physical features were nothing out of the ordinary, and being required to wear clothing articles identical to all the other young males will only allow him to be less conspicuous.

He notices Dean does not put on his uniform and wonders if it is a sign of rebelliousness.

He follows the Winchesters to the school again, that day. He sits in the backseat of their car again and listens to Mary argue with Dean. The subject seems quite foolish to Castiel; Dean wanted to drive Sam and himself, but Mary complains that she will never have the opportunity to drive Dean to school on the first day ever again. Castiel struggles to wrap his head around the maternal bond, a relationship that is beyond foreign to him. Angels are created with all the knowledge and wisdom the Host has, which means there is no adolescent stage. However, the older angels would guide the younger. Castiel draws a thin parallel between an Earthly maternal bond to the bond he shared with his mentor, Anael. There is an unfamiliar twist in his chest, a twist of longing, but he brushes it off quickly. The feeling is simply a result of Castiel adjusting to his vessel and the strands of emotion that come with it. Missing Anael would not feel like this otherwise.

Once the car arrives at the school, the brothers climb out. Apparently it is Sam’s first day, and Dean tells him, “if anyone messes with you, you come to me alright?” Sam laughs and nods, placating his brother. 

Dean is protective of Sam, Castiel notes. Their strong relationship will be crucial in keeping them from becoming vessels and ultimately killing each other. This is a good thing.

Instead of following Sam and Dean, Castiel merely blinks, and he is standing before his locker. He has all the supplies his syllabus called for in a book bag strapped to his back, which he slides of his shoulder and hangs on the hook in his locker. Appearances are important, but he does not plan on actually using these things.

Castiel is content to find his first period class, which is Calculus, and find a seat. He waits silently, erect in a desk in the very back corner, and his eyes flicker to the clock. The room is empty and he thinks that it must be atypical to arrive ten minutes before class officially starts. A few students begin to filter in, but a majority of the desks remain empty.

A bell rings, but it must be a warning because the teacher has not even arrived in her desk yet. He sighs; educators ought to be punctual and set a positive example for students. He finds himself wishing he were in Heaven to inform his brothers that educational reform should be on their agenda, not _starting_ the apocalypse.

Castiel’s reverie is broken when he hears a familiar voice. It certainly belongs to Dean Winchester. He, like all the other students, dons a dark navy sweater and dress pants—very different than the casual wear Castiel had seen him in previously that morning. He had taken little note of his appearance before, but the current visage of his charge starkly contrasts against the memory. Even his hair is different, gelled back and without its natural sheen. Castiel wonders when and where, between this classroom and the car, Dean changed into his uniform.

Dean is loud and laughing, as he talks amongst his friends. He moves down the isle of desks, to the back of the room, and Dean sets his backpack on the desk directly adjacent to Castiel. Dean does not notice him, because he is distracted by something his friend is saying, but Castiel looks directly at him. He realizes this is a mistake, because Dean nearly falls back when he looks in Castiel’s direction, to find that he is receiving an intense stare.

“ _Shit_ Cas, um—” he stammers and wipes a hand across his face. “You scared me.”

“Who’s that skinny freak?” Castiel hears one of Dean’s friends say, quite loud and Castiel is sure he is intended to hear the insult. He is sitting on the opposite side of Dean, leering at Castiel in what he seems to think is an inconspicuous manner.

“He’s new around here. From Indiana or something,” Dean mutters noncommittally in a voice that is clearly _not_ supposed to be heard by Castiel. 

Dean’s friend leans to his ear. “Dude, he looks like, twelve. You’d think there isn’t a hair on his skinny ass body.”

Though he knows he is not intended to hear that conversation, Castiel huffs in annoyance. His body is well past puberty, but he chooses to keep his face clear of facial hair. He thought that was the social norm. Dean’s face was clean shaven, but there was stubble running along his jaw. He applies the same observation to several other young males in the room.

Castiel runs a hand across his neck, and the hair grows ever so slightly. There would be a shadow similar to the other males, now, and hopefully he would not stand out as being odd.

Dean’s reply to his friend is a noncommittal shrug, and Castiel tilts his head. Does that mean he agrees, that Castiel is young-looking? Perhaps that is why he stared at Castiel oddly on the day of registration. His vessel is nearly eighteen years of age, just like Dean, but the maturity pattern must be different. Will this difference prevent a bond from forming?

The boy keeps chattering about Castiel’s appearance and it is growing tiresome. He is a celestial being and not patient enough to deal with juvenile behavior. It does not matter that Castiel simply does not care what others think, unless it impedes Dean’s ability to trust him, because he expects respect regardless of his form. If he were in his Heavenly body, the boy’s first instinct would certainly be to fall to his feet and worship him as if he were a God. Or, perhaps just defecate in his undergarments due to an overproduction of fear hormones in his pituitary gland.  

Castiel sighs and leans across his desk. “You ought to pay attention, rather than vocalize your unintelligent ridicule,” he says.

“What did you say to me?” the boy demands and Dean’s brows raise. Castiel ignores him, unthreatened by his obscene tone. He stares to the front of the room and listens as the instructor introduces the curriculum for the coming months. 

Once the class ends, Castiel gathers his books and ignores that same unintelligible gurgle of insults coming from Dean’s companion.He is at the door of the classroom when an arm flies in a downward swoop, knuckles cracking against the spines of Castiel’s books . They scatter across the floor at Castiel’s feet, and the Dean’s friend laughs and bumps against Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel’s tongue tastes like acid and metal, an unfamiliar feeling but he is sure it is rage. Angels feel anger differently. It pulses through the veins of their Grace and glows with a dark yet glorious burn. Such rage causes cities to be obliterated and kingdoms to fall. In the body of a young male, the effects are different. It is affecting Castiel’s thoughts, the adrenaline that pulsesto each muscle in his body. It makes his knuckles grew white as his hands clench to fists. He is dangerously close to losing control and breaking the wall he’d put between his Grace and his vessel, the wall that would keep him from killing everyone within a mile’s radius if he did not calm himself.  

“Are you goingto pick these up?” he asks, and the boy turns on his heel to look at Castiel. He is laughing, shaking his head as he does so.

“No, are you?” he snorts. “You _ought_ to pay attention to where you’re walking, buddy, or else.” Castiel hears the mocking, the challenge in the boy’s voice and Castiel glares furiously.

His power is finite, but it is enough to kill this boy—he could tear his soul out by its rotted strands and throw it into Hell if he wished to exhaust all the power that remained in his Grace. He won’t, because he is not so short sighted, but he could waste away all his might on a squirming ant that could be annihilated so simply. Though he feels nothing but sinful arrogance and wrath, desires nothing but to demonstrate that, although his vessel is young and small, he could tear a rampant ditch in this town and more.

When he takes a large stride forward, he is jerked back—not hard—by a hand on his shoulder. He turns his blazing stare behind him, and it is Dean Winchester. Of course he is defending his friend. Loyalties run deep in humans and despite his friend’s wistful pride and inability to perceive that Castiel is a true danger to him, Dean will defend him. It is a shame, because Castiel misinterpreted Dean’s soul. Though he had only seen brief glimpses of it, he was sure it burned bright and blazing. Now Castiel could see was his own furious stare reflected in Dean’s eyes. He is resolve, in that moment, to slip away and simply perch over their shoulders. The facade will end, because Castiel is _not_ a human and Dean Winchester shall never be his friend—

There is something flickering in Dean’s eyes, a calm. Castiel knows the look, even when settled in the eyes of a human. Many call it a battle calm; when a storm rages, one cannot rage with it. One must be the anchor in the twisting tides,.“Just ignore him,” Dean says, and his voice is soft. It is but a quiet purr, and Castiel realizes that kindness in his tone is reserved for Castiel’s ears. Castiel still feels his pulse thrumming when Dean’s hand squeezes his shoulder tighter. _Calm,_ the touch commands. He cannot fathom why his body listens to the silent words, responds to the touch. Dean releases his shoulder and kneels to the ground, gathering Castiel’s books. Castiel does not know whether to continue being enraged or to let his anger falter in order to bask in shock. He surrenders to the latter as Dean slides his books into Castiel’s fingers, their hands briefly touching as with a flicker of warmth as Castiel takes them.

“What the hell Winchester?”

Dean’s eyes roll and he points his thumb toward Castiel. “He’s new—” and then he gesticulates towardhis friend. “And you’rean asshole.”

They throw obscene gestures at one another until Dean’s friend—well, perhaps the label _friend_ is a loose term—melds into the hoard of students bursting from the surrounding classrooms and throughout the hall. Dean sighs loudly and turns to Castiel, but doesn’t make direct eye contact. “That guy is a dick, I’m sorry,” he says and the apology is genuine. 

Castiel half-heartedly accept the apology. “I am entitled to some respect, and though I appreciate you dismissing him, I do not need a defender.”

“I wasn’t _sayin_ you did, I was trying to be nice, is all,” Dean snaps back, narrowing his eyes. “Next time someone’s ‘bout to beat the shit out of you, I’ll be sure to let it happen.” The bile tainting his words is clear in Castiel’s ears.

“I do not understand why you are angry,” Castiel states blandly, letting his own anger dissolve as he is bewildered by Dean’s sudden change.

“Because you’re being an unappreciative—ugh, I don’t know!” Dean threw his hands up. “I was trying to help and now...” A hallow sigh passed his downturned lips. “Now you’re looking at me like you’re some sorta lost puppy. Jesus Christ.”

Castiel tilts his head. He is beyond confused. “I know precisely where I am Dean. I am not lost, so do not feel responsible for me finding my way.”

“Is that some kinda euphemism?” Dean mumbled.

“No.”

“Uh, okay then.” Dean inhaled and then pressed his lips hard together. Castiel interprets it as anxiety. He is about to instigate a conversation regarding Dean’s anxiety when a shrill bell blares through the halls. “Shit, that’s the warning bell,” Dean cursed and peered over his shoulder and then back to Castiel. “Listen, Cas, I’ll find you at lunch, okay? We’ll talk...some more. If you want.” He tugs at his unbuttoned collar, as if it is snug to his neck, which it is not.

Their goodbye is brief, and Castiel does not bother walking to his second period. The halls are clear for the most part, so he simply carries himself on invisible wings to the door of his next class.

The day passes monotonously. Castiel is accustomed to waiting; he finds his vessel, or rather the strange bond he has created with his vessel, to be more privy to impatience. Castiel never had such problems with his previous vessels. 

There are several reasons why this is the case. Firstly, when he took vessels before, he was directly connected to the heavenly Host. This means that his consciousness was often one with his comrades, and his thoughts were not completely free and they were often not originally his. Angels are qualitative and strategic. They do not know how to think freely. It is only in Castiel’s resolve that he was able to break from that mold, because he saw God’s ultimate creation, humanity, about to be inflamed by a war that is beyond Heaven and Hell and is simply the result of one rebellious angel. Ironically, it takes another rebellious angel to right that wrong.

The disconnection between Castiel’s Grace and the Host allows his bond to deepen with his vessel. Though he is certain Jimmy Novak is unaware of all that occurs, he often finds himself unintentionally accessing the vast amount of human knowledge Jimmy possesses. And his emotions run a little hotter as well, unlike an angel. He feels anger as a human would; Castiel detects a spike in his core body temperature just as his brain forces the production of adrenalin. Castiel is hyper aware of the chemical reaching his muscles and begging for movement. His heart rate increases tenfold. He wonders if Jimmy was subliminally a wrathful young man or if Castiel is the perpetually angry one.

When Castiel’s class is dismissed from lunch, he considers following his classmates in line. Though it appears that one must provide some sort of currency to have lunch, so he decides against it. He does not need sustenance anyhow, but he hopes none of the other students notice he chooses not to eat.

The cafeteria has short ceilings but it is long and quite expansive given the age and size of the building. The floor is covered with dozens of circular tables, most of which are filled with students that all blend together in their identical uniforms and blatantly similar features. Castiel draws his eyes across the room, hoping to see Dean. He does not, and he does not sense Dean’s presence either. However, Sam Winchester is in the cafeteria.

His soul is a bright beacon of calm, so serene that even Castiel is drawn towards it. The irony of Sam Winchester is that he possess one of the purest souls Castiel has ever seen but his blood and destiny are tainted with evil and deception. He sits at a table near the outer wall, seated next to a window, and he is alone. Castiel frowns and wonders why such a bright boy has no companions of his own age. Previously Castiel feared that the age difference between his vessel and Sam would prevent them from forming a close bond. However, from a brief glance, it seems it is typical for different age groups to mingle in this school. He decides that it is no longer of import and strides over to Sam’s table.

“Hello,” Castiel murmurs as soon as he is next to Sam. He pulls out a chair and sits down, stiff in his movements, and forces a pleasant smile to his lips. “My name is Castiel, and I see you are sitting alone, so I am going to sit with you for the duration of the lunch period.”

Sam is taken back by Castiel’s greeting. Perhaps he was too forward. A few moments pass and Sam rolls his neck, effectively replacing the bewildered expression on his lips with asmile. It is genuine; Castiel can tell by the way the corner of his eyes fold as if they were an elder’s wrinkles. “Um, hey. Castiel. I’m Sam.”

“Nice to meet you,” Castiel states, because that is the usual response he has heard.

“Same. Uh, yeah, first days are _always_ fun, especially when you don’t know anyone,” Sam laughs, but it is tinted with nerves rather than genuine humor. “None of my friends from middle school come here. Why are you sitting with the dumb freshman with no friends?”

“I do not find you dumb. In fact, you are interesting; for instance, your use of humor to deflect the discomfort, loneliness, and slight agitation is fascinating. Though you should learn to expel emotions, for that is not healthy and can cause detriment to the human mind.” Castiel glances away for a moment, observing the students passing by, sloppy in their movements. It is a momentary distraction. “I am new to the area, actually. I am not privy to friendship, but you seem...nice.” Lies, Castiel sighs internally. 

“Uh...” Sam mumbles. “Thanks?”

Castiel tries to make conversation, but he does not think that Sam is receptive to many of the topics he tries. Eventually they fall silent as Sam eats his lunch and Castiel stares out the window. Once he blocks out the murmur of the cafeteria, Castiel can hear the bird chirping beyond the glass, sitting on tree branches on the school’s campus. He envies their freedom. Castiel is effectively contained in this building for several more hours.

It is near the end of his period when Dean finally finds him. There is a brief moment of shock, mutual between Sam and Dean, when they realize they have both befriended the same new student. Dean seems a little grateful that Castiel sat with him, and promised Sam that he would join the two of them every day for lunch. Castiel did not let his sudden joy of the promise show, even though the promise was not meant for him. Now he will have a greater opportunity to influence the brothers and to watch them. There will be signs of angel interference, and the bond that the three of them will form will allow Castiel to have a greater awareness. 

His plan, as insane as it seems, might actually work.

 


	3. Songbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know we’ve...kinda talked about this,” Dean breathes, barely even audible, and Castiel senses his breathing hitch. “Personal space.”
> 
> Under the scrutiny of Dean’s eyes, Castiel does not feel the discomfort he know he should. In fact, he is fascinated by the rapid flicker of emotions in his eyes. Concentrating, Castiel sees Dean’s soul expand outside his body, its warmth swaying like a wave out, and then it withdraws back inside.
> 
> “Yes,” Castiel says and takes a small step back. “Apologies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for all the feedback I have received thus far!! You really have no idea what it means to me <3

It is apparent that Castiel has achieved some sort of human connection with Dean Winchester. By chance (or by a little angelic persuasion on Castiel’s part) he and Dean are lab partners in the biology class they share. The insolent human from earlier, who Dean informs him is called Ace, is also in that class. He eyes them with scrutiny, and Castiel returns the glare but Ace still is not threatened by Castiel. It is eternally frustrating, to be mistaken for a scrawny, weak human. His vessel is not even that _skinny_ , as Ace said, his frame was just smaller. Despite the lack of muscle mass, his angelic strength alone could grind his bones to dust.

Dean bumps his shoulder into Castiel's, getting his attention. He slowly lets his glare fade away as he turns to face Dean.

“You look like you wanna kill him,” Dean laughs.

“With every fiber in my being, yes, I do.” Despite the bitter and brutal honesty, Dean’s laughter becomes boisterous and infused with a fond smile.

“I wouldn’t hang out with him if he wasn’t on the soccer team. Most of the guys on the team are pretty dickish—hell, I can be an asshole sometimes but I know the boundaries. I ain’t a bully.”

Castiel tilts his head curiously. “Why not?”

The question seems to cause Dean some kind of sadness. Castiel wants to ask him why he looks sad, but also knows that he should let Dean answer his first question. He might find two answers in his insight.

“My little brother was picked on a lot, because he’s a geek—you know, not that it’s a bad thing, it’s really not,” Dean explains despite not being asked, taking a steady breath. “When the guys starting doing shit, I think about how everyone could be someone’s little brother. They got people who care about them, shit they’re _people_ not toys,” Dean sighed and runs a hand through his hair. “I know when enough is enough, and Ace was pissin’ me off earlier, so...yeah. That’s why.” A brief moment of silence passes between them, and Dean glances from the corner of his eyes to meet Castiel’s still-curious gaze.He watches as Dean’s facial expressions morph, his lips fall open and his tongue brushes across the bottom one just before his teeth delve to take in the plush flesh. 

Castiel’s eyes curiously linger at the sight, and then raises them to meets Dean’s. Pink spreads across the tops of his cheeks and the vein in his neck protrudes slightly just as he clears his throat.

“Um—yeah, so you got any siblings?” Dean croaks, looking away quickly.

The question creates more discomfort in the pit of Castiel’s stomach. Thinking of his siblings as anything but simple opposition creates a dichotomous and tumultuous sadness that is mostly foreign to Castiel. Emotion in general is kept at an arm’s length for Castiel, because it can cloud one’s thoughts so easily. He knew this as much when the memory of his confrontation with the human name Ace sparked in his mind, flickering the wrathful remnants of the encounter. He would _not_ let sadness debilitate him in that same manner.

“I have... many siblings,” Castiel states hesitantly, looking for the correct phrasing that would not be dishonest, but would still conceal the secrets that must be kept. “I have not seen them in a long while. My family is quite hostile.” If there were ever an understatement, labeling his brothers and sisters interactions as hostile is one. Castiel’s chest twinges uncomfortably again, and it is something akin to longing. He never thought it was plausible for him to miss his siblings before, even when he would spend decades away from some of them at a time. Being severed from the Host, and their collective consciousness, is more taxing than Castiel predicted. In some ways, he has never felt more alone.

“That blows,” Dean comments with a nod. The euphemism is lost to Castiel, so he tips his head. “Stinks, I mean. Not good,” he amends impatiently. “So you’re the youngest, I guess?” Castiel stares at him, not knowing how to answer, so he rephrases his question again. “I mean, you’re the only one living with your parents.”

It is simpler to agree in a noncommittal falsehood than attempt to make up more lies. “Yes.”

Dean smirks and elbows Castiel. “So you’re the baby of the family, huh? Shoulda guessed. That’s probably why you and Sam are are all buddy-buddy?”

“I am not a baby,” Castiel replies indignantly, pushing his shoulders back in order to illustrate the length of his vessel. “I am nearly a full-developed male, despite what your friend Ace insists, I have hair on my body and muscle on my frame, underneath this uniform.”

“Oh my God, if that’s flirting then you need help,” Dean says with his mouth agape.

“That was not—”

Castiel was cut short by the class’ instructor beginning his lecture. He did not hesitate to pass an annoyed expression to Dean, who sniggered into the palm he pressed to his mouth. The amusement on his face was inconvenient indeed, because it was difficult to sustain any semblance of annoyance when is soul illuminated so brightly. Had Castiel incited that light?

He would never give himself as much credit. He was quickly realizing that Dean is much more radiant of a human than originally thought. 

 

* * *

 

School is a routine like any other Castiel knows. He goes and performs his human act, though it is trying, but finds his time spent with Sam and Dean a little less... forced. Castiel’s extensive knowledge of ancient literature, art, and science makes excellent conversation with the young and inquisitive Sam. Dean, on the other hand, is not as receptive to Castiel’s limited knowledge of human interaction.

Castiel is a _soldier,_ yet his frustration is nearly crippling. The longer he refrains from using his Grace to its full potential, the more human he feels. Luckily his vessel remains just that, a vessel, and does not compel him to eat or adapt any other human habits. It is his emotions that start to run rampant, which implores Castiel to not only desire a connection with Sam and Dean, but _crave_ it.

When the nights fall, Castiel lingers in the Winchester household, invisible to the human eye. Sam goes to sleep earlier than Dean, most of the time with his phone still in his hands and a smile on his lips. Castiel is warmed by how innocent he looks and approaches his bedside. The phone’s screen comes to light, a name flashing. Ruby—ah. At lunch Sam had spoken of her several times, mostly as a result of Dean teasing him about his ‘crush’. Supposedly the object of Sam’s admiration goes to the girl’s Catholic school in Lawrence, thus being the reason he rarely sees her. Castiel tried to offer some sympathy and explained that distance only makes the heart grow fonder. Admittedly, Sam’s knowing smile at his words warmed Castiel’s heart more than he cares to admit.

After encroaching upon the edges of Sam’s dreams, ensuring that he was asleep, Castiel becomes corporal and removes the phone from Sam’s open fingers and sets it on the nightstand. Castiel mimics what a mother would do—not that he is trying to be Sam’s mother; he regards himself as a caretaker of sorts and even if the comfort occurs in an unconscious state, Castiel wishes to provide—and pulls his quilt over his arms. Sam murmurs appreciatively, rolling onto his side.

The next room is Dean’s, and he is awake, so Castiel does not materialize. Dean lays on his bed, arms crossed behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. He has never seemed so thoughtful, so _at peace._ He realizes that there are white wires stringing up his chest, winding into his ears. Headphones—Dean is listening to music. The suspicion is confirmed as Castiel approaches the bed and sees Dean’s bare feet twitch to a steady rhythm. Castiel’s eyes trail from there up Dean’s legs, which are also bare. He is only wearing plaid patterned shorts, which is what Dean usually wears when sleeping. Before Castiel’s can linger, Dean is suddenly humming a soft melody.

It escalates, and Dean’s hands are no longer pressed against the headboard, arms crossed beneath his neck. He presses his right hand to the center of his chest, at his sternum, and presses lightly, fingers feathering across his skin. Castiel’s brows quirk upward, intrigued and mystified as his left hand performs a similar action on his hip, and then his thigh. His other hand palms against the defined muscles of his abdomen, but he pushes down, far enough for Castiel to nearly stumble back in shock. He sees Dean’s fingers hook into the waistband of his shorts for a microsecond before Castiel decidedly launches himself at least ten miles away into the middle of a cornfield.

He inhales a deep breath of cool fall air, and it isn’t until this moment of clarity that he realizes his pulse throbs at the vein in his neck and there is a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Two more breaths and those too-human reactions melt away and he is calm and spotlessly clean in the uniform he wears each day. Physically, he is without flaw. His thoughts race, however; he knows the meaning of Dean’s movements, the compulsion of his hands to delve beneath the one article of clothing he wore... to pleasure himself. It is a human ritual, self-fulfilment. Castiel would have known to give Dean his privacy sooner if it weren’t for his entrancement. Self-inflicted rage peels through his veins for a brief moment, before he extinguishes it with a pulse of angelic calm, as he tries to rationalize an explanation for being _so—_ so _affected._

He stares upward, eyes searching the sky for some guidance. He should know better than to look up. God, if He is up there, has never listened to his pleas before. His jaw rolls at the bitter thought, and chastises himself for being faithless. It is his _brothers_ who are faithless and doubt that God will ever rise from silence and guide them once more. So they were charged to protect Earth? A millenia-old assignment was merely a half-hearted request now.

In spite of all that, the blatant lack of faith in his Father, Castiel fights to protect the thing the other angels desire to destroy. Despair fills his chest as his eyes fall from the sky, to the Earth. He shifts from one foot to the other, hearing the dirt crunch beneath his shoes. All the world is to Castiel is dirt, but then there is the life that grows from the dirt. Similarly, the world is filled with violence and despair—thus is the justification for starting the apocalypse, to ‘get things over with’ as Zachariah had told Castiel and his garrison—yet there are small pieces of hope, incandescent souls like Sam and Dean to ignite a path toward something _better._ That is what he is fighting for. Life.

So is it wrong if he is able to taste what he is fighting for? To taste life and experience things as a human? Castiel ponders that God might call it blasphemy, to not live adjacent to the human design that He created, to not _be_ what He created. Castiel does not have a soul, he has Grace... Grace that’s power quickly fades and he _tries_ not to feel it. Time is of the essence, and there is no time to go against the current. If he truly is performing God’s will by protecting the Winchesters, then all his action must be divinely inspired. That is a nearly blasphemous leap, but he takes it. He feels the brush of autumn against his vessel’s cheek, teasing the tight collar of his shirt. Tentatively Castiel raises his fingers and unfastens the top button, letting the air seep against his neck. As he pulls back, the pads of Castiel’s fingers scrape against his vessel’s neck. _His_ neck.

He decides that if he is to save the world from burning, along with his self-appointed charges, he mustn’t be an idle observer. The realization is a burning relief down his spine and—and then into his legs, his feet, through his toes that itch with an urgency that tells him to _run._ It is strange and sudden, unnatural, and it makes his bones feel brittle as glass.

It is a warning.

Castiel’s assumptions about how well-guarded his location is led to this moment, when he turns around sharply. He recognizes his brothers immediately, the aura of their halos dancing over them in an array of beauty. Halos are like starlight around a vessel’s skull, illuminating the mist which are their wings behind them. Castiel jerks backward, summoning his Grace to take flight, to flee, but nothing happens. Panic spirals through through every fiber of his being as he glares forward silently.

The angel that steps forward is wearing a vessel that is much older than Castiel’s, with wrinkles framing angry eyes and barely any hair covering his head. Though his expression is clearly enraged, there is a cruel smile playing on his thin lips. Castiel recoils back even further, finding himself being seized by his arms on both sides. More angels. He jerks, but they tug back harder, subduing him easily. He is an angel without charge, and they have a direct line to the Heavenly Host.

He is powerless.

“Oh, Castiel, it is so _good_ to see you,” the older angel says, and if the tainted smirk was not a clue, the bitter sarcasm on his brother’s words is.

“Zachariah,” Castiel replies, letting his voice fall into a dangerously low register. “I am afraid I cannot return the sentiment.”

“Of course not, you’re acting like a _hairless ape_ now, so of course you have no manners.” Zachariah clicks his tongue audibly against the roof of his mouth.

Castiel remains silent, unfazed by the insult. Zachariah does not like the lack of response, typical behavior on his part. He was always a manipulator, not a true strategist like Castiel. If he thinks he can incite some reaction from Castiel that would warrant a collision of forces, he is wrong. Castiel will strike when he is ready, handicapped without full power or not.

“Hope is not _all_ lost for you, Castiel,” he says, drawing out his gaze before he turns his eyes toward the dark sky overhead. He paces in front of Castiel, and it is a taunting gesture, taunting his freedom before Castiel like he his a trapped animal. Whether he is truly trapped or not is all of perception. “You have created quite a mess, up there. Angels asking why you left, _questioning me,_ ” Zachariah growls, fists clenching at his sides. “Unacceptable, Castiel.”

Hope flickers in his chest. “If _one_ angel can see through your lies and propaganda, this is worth it,” Castiel replies through clenched teeth.

“You won’t be able to enjoy a full-scale rebellion when you’re dead.” Zachariah waves a hand, and the angel holding Castiel’s right arm tugs harder and presses a familiar cold blade to the crease where his neck meets his jaw. The angel slides it tauntingly, not breaking the skin, but exploiting Castiel’s vulnerability. He has a similar blade strapped to his ankle—he can feel the cold metal burn against his calf as he struggles not to have his neck sliced into.

Zachariah stops pacing and comes toward Castiel. He tilts his head mockingly as his eyes brush over Castiel. “I don’t _want_ to kill you—or rather, have our brother here do it. You are no stranger to, hmm, visiting the woodshed if you will.” Castiel’s blazing glare intensifies.

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he dismisses, pulling away and turning his back. “You can come back to heaven Castiel. All you have to do is stand before heaven and admit to your trespasses—admit that you were a _damned fool_ for disobeying.”

“I _rebelled_ against Heaven, but I have not disobeyed _Him,_ ” Castiel intones, not breaking his eyes from Zachariah. “God would not want children to be vessels to this—this _war._ It’s unholy.”

“Enough!” Zachariah snaps forward, grappling Castiel by his neck and raising him into the air. He gasps for a breath, an unneeded one, but panic still rises in his throat like bile. The other angels are not holding him anymore, as his brother raises Castiel above his head. His eyes narrow downward—Zachariah’s eyes are filled with blind wrath, not calculating the range of motion Castiel now has in his limbs. He swings his legs, seemingly indicating a simple struggle, but he is building momentum. His legs glide back, and then forward, and then back again as Zachariah’s hands begin to leave bruising marks.

Castiel closes his eyes and focuses, before swinging back one last time, and then forward with a jerk of his hips. The heels of his feed collide into the center of Zachariah’s chest, causing him to release Castiel’s neck before he flies backward. Castiel’s strength is impaired, but not altogether lost. Satisfied with this discovery, he smiles and quickly bends to unharness the angel blade from his ankle. His body moves like a riptide, pulling in and out as the angels slice their own blades at him. He finds a slice of a moment to ready his fighting stance, legs steady and arms stealthy as he takes the offensive. One angel narrowly misses Castiel’s knife when he bends at the waist. The other, who is standing adjacent, is not as lucky. Castiel buries the blade deep in the neck of the angel. He is sorrowful as light spills from his brother’s eyes, and he silently prays that his brother will rest peacefully.

There is little time to waste on mourning actions that needed to be done, because the second angel is persistent. He calls Castiel a litany of dirty names, including a traitor. His heart tears and unravels with each label thrown, because in this moment, in the heat of battle, he is indeed a traitor. He had avoided committing violence against his brothers until this point. Although he has no choice but to fight, he killed an angel. His own kind.

They were going to kill him first.

Castiel is so focused on the angel that he does not sense Zachariah coming behind him until it is too late. He is slammed to the ground with a shockingly hard thrust, the Earth giving out beneath him in a body-shaped crater. Castiel’s head aches from the impact, and he feels the sticky hot liquid dripping down his cheek, his jaw. He also tastes blood in his mouth from him biting on his tongue.

Zachariah is livid and cold as he presses one hand to the base of Castiel’s neck, the other to his forehead. He forces him to bare his throat in surrender, and Castiel cannot move because Zachariah’s knees are pinning his shoulders.

“Do it!” he screams at the other angel. “Cut his throat and take out his Grace, then _kill_ him.”

The other angel follows the directions and hovers beside Castiel, quickly pressing the blade to Castiel’s neck. He swallows as the pressure increases, the flesh tearing and light pouring from the ripped seam. Castiel cries out as the energy is pulled from him like a magnet, slipping faster and faster until he feels his limbs growing numb as well—

Light _explodes_ from the angel’s face; it curls with shock and fear before an incredible amount of incandescent energy sears from his eye sockets and mouth. Moments pass, and the angel tumbles over, blade falling out of his hand and fromCastiel’s neck. Relief floods through him as his Grace withdraws, filling his insides rather than escaping into the atmosphere.

Bones crack, and the weight of Zachariah’s body is gone. He hears him curse, but his thoughts ring and confusion is inherent with the constant high pitch sound. He is being lifted, and a murmur enters his ears that sounds like his name.

The ringing stops when warm air hits his face. Castiel jerks upward, frantically taking in his surroundings. It is a building without true walls and light, a warehouse. He recognizes hundreds of sigils painted on the metal panel walls and ceiling, sigils that hide the location from angels.

“— _Castiel,_ ” a voice implores, as if it has been repeated over and over. After a disoriented moment, Castiel realizes that voice _had_ been saying his name, but he could not generate a response. He first claws at his neck, grateful to feel no slice of skin, no way for his Grace to leave him now. The terror fades, and he looks to the source of the voice.

A tall young woman kneels before his body, a hand pressed against his shoulder. She smiles warmly, and the warmth is familiar. There is also a yellow-orange halo dancing over her red hair, emulating a blazing fire. There is _recognition_ in her eyes, and it makes Castiel’s Grace throb. The longing he had felt earlier feels quenched, even though he cannot identify which angel had rescued him.

She took a new vessel, but it is her.

“Anael?” he murmurs, and her smile grows.

“Yes, it’s me Castiel.” She raises her slender fingers to his cheek. “You have gotten yourself into a lot of trouble, huh?”

He shakes his head, and her hand drops. “What are you doing here?” he asks as he raises to his feet. She follows, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Saving you,” she replies sourly, rolling her eyes. “You almost died—you _would_ have died if I didn’t get there when I did. Or, at least you would have been human.”

A frown flushes on his lips. “You rebelled. You should have stayed—there needs to be a rebellion in _Heaven,_ not on Earth.”

“It was too late for me, but maybe Rachel will come to her senses,” Anael murmurs hopefully. “Now what are you doing?”

Castiel presses his lips together. “What needs to be done. Protecting the Winchesters is priority. It is only a matter of time before the angels will plague Dean Winchester’s dreams, inspire heroism and sensationalize a self-sacrificial act of serving _God._ And Lucifer will be freed soon, I know it—”

“He already has, Castiel,” Anael interrupts. The air stills, warmness suddenly turning cool.

“What?” he breathes.

“The seals have been broken, and the angels helped. When I found out, I went to Zachariah, and I demanded to know what God thought of all this—he _laughed_ , Castiel. He told me ‘God isn’t home anymore, we run everything now’ and I told them exactly what I thought. What _we_ think.”

Castiel really should not be more angry than before, but he is. There was still hope that his brother’s and sisters would see the wrongness of their actions. Clearly, they are either ignorant or beyond any level of forgiveness. Castiel’s fists tighten and he wishes he could ignite _something_ to take out his unbidden rage. He looks to Anael, whose lips are pressed together tight as she watches him.

“Thank you,” he tells her. “It seems as though... there is little to do. Lucifer walks and he will be wanting to take his true vessel soon enough. I...I cannot guard them forever, and I cannot enlighten them because it will only mean they will live in fear of what lies in the shadows, and even the light.”

“Hey,” Anael mumbles, touching his arm. “Not all hope is lost. We will find a away to do this, and we will do it together. You are not alone in this. If anything, I should have come with you the moment you fell. But I am a coward.”

“You are anything but a coward, Anael,” Castiel objects stringently. “You were going to hold them off.”

“Heaven is a corrupt place, Castiel, and I have known that a very long time. I considered falling, after the last rotation. You know, not just like you here, with all your power fading. I wanted to be human.”

“I experience humanity, in this vessel sometimes—it is not all that great,” Castiel murmurs.

“That’s the point, Castiel. Sometimes I wonder if that was God’s plan, for us not to be given free will, but to earn it through trials and tribulations and, lastly, through a sacrifice.”

“Our Grace.”

“Yes,” Anael confirms, a half-smile on her lips. “I couldn’t do it though. I couldn’t make the sacrifice, so I stayed. Now I am more resolute than ever to save the world, to stop this damn apocalypse, so I can do it. So I can fall.”

“I... I don’t know if I can empathize with your choice, but there is no doubt in my mind that I need an ally. Especially when my Grace is weak. I must conserve it as much as I can, in case I am attacked again.”

“I’ll keep an eye on you, but I agree. I sense that your refraining from using your Grace has saved some energy, but it will also become more difficult to access it in times of need. Hence, you will grow more reliant on your vessel than your angelic Grace. You really _are_ getting a taste of humanity, Castiel. Consider it a blessing.”

He had already wondered, like she said, if this was God’s blessing to him. He needs an idea of what he’s fighting for, and the small bonds he shares with the Winchester brothers is merely a taste of the highlights that humanity has to offer.

Castiel shrugs his shoulders noncommittally and offers a small smile. “I trust your judgement.”

“And I yours. Just earn their trust, Castiel,” she says slowly, squeezing his arm. “And keep them in the dark.”

 

* * *

 

The weeks following, Castiel observes. Large segments of his existence had been spent doing as such, but that does not restrict a certain shade of melancholy from coloring his expressions, his emotions. Sam and Dean are not sensitive to the depth of Castiel’s despondent attitude, as he does well to shield himself from them and they are also preoccupied with their studies. Actually, Sam is concerned with this daily assignments and Dean is apathetic toward furthering his education in general. This confuses Castiel, because the next nine months are going to be his last spent in secondary schooling—it is his understanding that dispassion in that short period of time can lead to no future at all.

From Castiel’s observations, it does not seem as if Dean is able to apply his intellect, whether he has it or not, in the classroom. Most of the time he is slipping his phone from his pocket, smirking as his fingers jab against the touch screen—’texting’ it is called—and not paying attention to the instructor, Mr. Samson, at all. One day in biology, Dean catches Castiel peering downward, observing the movement of Dean’s fingers against the glass.

“Dude, that’s rude,” Dean says in harsh tone, slipping the phone into the pocket of his pants with a berating frown.

“Apologies,” Castiel murmurs, as his brows knit together. Is it against social custom to watch one’s hands? He opens his in his own lap, spreading his slim fingers across his thighs. He finds little scandal in them and would actually invite Dean to observe them, if he were ever curious. Though it is clear that Dean does not share the same level of curiosity as him, or even his younger brother. “I am just unfamiliar with...’texting’.”

“What?” Dean blurts, rather loudly, and the class falls quiet. Dean murmurs an apology to Mr. Samson, who sends a glare toward them, and he lowers his head. There is pink staining his cheeks and Castiel tags the body language—Dean ducking his chin and losing his eyes on the top of the table—as embarrassment. “I—you don’t text?” he clarifies in a near-whisper.

Castiel follows his lead, lowering his voice carefully so that only Dean can hear. Despite being in human form, he _is_ able to control the frequency of his voice. “Never,” he replies. “I have never even had a phone.”

“You don’t even have a _phone_?” Dean whispers back, voice frantic as his green eyes grow large. “I...wow. Not judging you, I know people have different lifestyles but _man._ ”

“What I need, has been provided for me.” Castiel shrugs his shoulders and feels another pointed glare from the teacher.

“Novak—Winchester—are you finished with your assignment and ready to take the test?” Mr. Samson calls down the aisle, arms crossed as he stands from his desk. Dean shifts in his seat uncomfortably and curses underneath his breath, though Castiel has no reason to flinch.

“Dean and I have nearly finished,” Castiel says. “I would rather take the test the day you scheduled it.”

The response must have come across blunt, because the teacher’s brows spike upward, causing his forehead to wrinkle into a more angry expression. He says nothing, though; Mr. Samson simply turns on his heel and falls back into his seat, eyes still blaring forward at Castiel.

“That guy makes me wanna shit my pants,” Dean murmurs, shielding the sound with his palm as his eyes burn into his textbook. “Had him for sophomore biology—he almost _failed_ me.”

Castiel’s lips twist—Dean’s neck is still red, and he wonders if there is something more to this teacher than a poor grade. His eyes are downcast, _anxious,_ Castiel thinks. Perhaps he fears the possibility of this teacher’s preconceived opinion of Dean will influence his grading method—which would be _completely_ unprofessional—and that he will struggle to pass this class again. Castiel is unsure of what consequences that entails, but he wants to wipe away Dean’s apprehensions. He wants to see that smile, even a jarring fall of his jaw as he tries to imagine how Castiel could be so primitive not to have ever used a phone.

The extent to which he wants Dean to be happy is disturbing. Castiel realizes he is already attached—nearly three weeks sitting beside Dean, mostly in silence. Given all of the circumstances, all that will be required of him in the coming months to stop the apocalypse, he should remember he is a _soldier_ and not their friend. Except, he has already decided that their trust is imperative, and friendship is a gateway to trust. _This—_ allowing the attachment to not only remain, but to grow as expediently as possible, is implicit to Castiel’s continued existence.

And he _wants_ it.

“I will ensure that you do not fail, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, causing Dean’s eyes to raise. His lips part, as if he is about to speak, but then they close again and he curious—his eyes are _confused._

“Yeah?”

Castiel nods a dutiful confirmation. “I promise, Dean, that you will not fail—and I will not fail _you._ ”

The first of the promises, he could keep as easily as he breathes; the second, makes in faith, and doubt fills his thoughts before he breaks his eyes from Dean’s face and too the meaningless assignment on his desk.

 

* * *

 

Castiel quickly learns that Sam would rather be in the school library than any other room in the array of buildings across the campus. He quickly understands why; it is a surprisingly expansive room but is disproportionately quiet. Though Castiel has sensitive hearing, he can only truly register Sam breathing from across the table, and the faint sound of wheels rolling as a librarian pushes a cart of books down an aisle.

Sam is hunched over the desk—his posture is detrimental to his spinal health—as his eyes scan through the book spread before him. There are few times in Castiel’s existence that he has seen humans thirsty for knowledge as Sam. That is precisely what he sees in Sam’s eyes—thirst—as he drinks in the words written across the page. Castiel is not paying too much attention to Sam, he is simply reading after all and need not to be interrupted, and he gazes around the library. He wonders if he quickly slips into his incorporeal state if he can bleed himself and paint Enochian symbols on the walls of the library—on an alternate plane, of course. He does not know how exposed the Winchesters are at school; there are many souls, and the lights easily blur together. Castiel has only been able to identify them because he knows the brothers personally now.

Souls are particularly powerful. The Nucleus of Heaven is powered by the pure energy that composes the soul of man; souls are pure light, light that moves in waves beyond the optic sphere. Only angels (and the occasional demon) can view the frequency on which souls lie on, and they can only be viewed with a great deal of focus. The source of the energy, the light, is the emotion that lies behind each motion. From the slightest happiness to the greatest sorrow, humans are made with souls powered by their own humanity.

Castiel can feel the slight glowing warmth flowing out from Sam, like ripples in water, and it is an eager warmth. Sam is mostly swollen with an easy happiness and pleasant to be around, and it makes Castiel’s Grace grow a little brighter, too.

The brief contentment is severed by a sudden shrill sound. Sam jumps in his seat, causing the table to shake. Castiel stares from across the table as Sam pulls his phone from his pocket, silencing it, just as the librarian furiously murmurs that she will confiscate it if he makes another sound. He apologizes, and Castiel observes Sam’s expressions contort in confusion, and then uncertainty. They flash up to meet Castiel’s, and his spine straightens.

“Dean,” he explains in a low voice.

“Dean is texting you?” Castiel asks, placating the moment by making conversation. He checked on Dean only an hour ago. He was in English class huddled over Plato’s _Republic_ with a hand shielding his eyes. Unless one lowered their head to look bellow Dean’s hand, he was only seem to be reading that book intently. But his eyes were actually shut and his mind hovered beyond consciousness. “Shouldn’t he be testing in his pre-Engineering class?”

Sam makes a curious expression, and Castiel recognizes it. It is one he has received far many times than he should have—and expression that conveyed, ‘how did you know that?’ While interacting with humans has grown easier as he is better apt to imitate routine, it is hard not to reveal his intimate knowledge of Sam and Dean’s routines. It is his self-appointed _duty_ to know where they are at every second of every day, even if he is not with them.

“Um, yeah,” Sam replies with uncertainty. “I’ll defer to you on that, Mr. Dean’s-Personal-Assistant.” He smiles, but Castiel does not understand the attempt at humor Sam makes. His smile drops away as he glances at the screen of his phone again. “He wants to come and get me, you too if you’re up for it.”

“But there are two more periods today, not including the seventeen minutes and twenty-eight seconds left in our study hall.”

A bout of restrained laughter cracks in Sam’s throat. “Yeah, Cas, that’s kinda the point. Skipping. I don’t like to do it but _Dean,_ well, he isn’t your run-of-the-mill law-abiding citizen.”

“He does this often then?” Castiel inquires.

“Yeah—not too often. And he drags _me_ along, too. Used to be harder though when my school was on the other side of town.”

“I see.” Castiel is a fallen angel with few qualms regarding breaking rules, especially those as trivial as St. Michael’s policies. “I will accompany you and Dean on your escapade.”

Sam bites his lower lip and nods, typing in their collective answer and sending it to Dean.

 

* * *

 

Castiel is unpleasantly surprised when he realizes how  _easy_ it is to come in and out of the school without being noticed. As faithful as he has always been, Castiel is also practical; believers in God are often stubborn enough to believe a few Hail Marys and a crucifix above each door will protect them from the world’s evils, both natural and supernatural. There is no masking the sadism that plagues humanity, horrible people seeking to do horrible things to the cradle of innocence: children. Dean might nearly be an adult, but he is still a child of the Lord. Castiel immediately regrets any extent of time he hadn’t spent with Dean—or Sam, of course—to protect them. It’s a tight feeling in his chest when he realizes how impaired he is by the thought of either of them suffering.

It’s easy, after the bell rings, to slip out the emergency exit in the library. Dean is waiting there, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved in the pockets of his brown leather jacket. Castiel is gasps when the knots in his throat and chest loosen, and come undone, when he sees Dean. His heart _leaps_ because Dean is alright. Seventeen years without Castiel perching on his shoulder, and he is alright. How feeble-minded it was to worry.

It rained, though Castiel already knew that, but his body reacts with a gasp because the air is nearly frigid. Autumn came fast, as things always do for Castiel, but he can actually _feel_ the difference between the pounding Kansas heat and the overcast chill the rain brought. He watches Dean, how he shivers as a raindrop slithers down his forehead and falls upon his eyelashes. He blinks, the droplet flicking onto his cheek and running down it, leaving a wet trail like a tear.

“Ready?” Dean asks, and he is not looking at Castiel. He is looking at Sam, but Castiel cannot seem to _stop staring,_ even though he has never held reservations about doing so before. Because Dean is veritably beautiful. Effortlessly, his soul radiates equally bright as Sam’s, but the colors curl into dimensions unregistered by any man’s eyes. He does not just glow, his soul extends from his body like limbs or, if Castiel did not know any better, wings. The sight compels Castiel to reach, to touch in awe the epitome of God’s handiwork but he does not

For a moment, Castiel is actually _distracted_ beyond hearing the short exchange between Sam and Dean, and they are walking toward the parking lot. Castiel stumbles awkwardly as his body catches up with his mind’s commands—and it is _strange_ how the two desynchronized—and he follows dutifully.

Castiel has seen Dean’s car, but has never been inside. It’s long and has many more curves than the modern cars. Castiel actually prefers it, because the metal is more dense too. Automobile accident fatalities are startling, especially for drivers between the age of eighteen and twenty-four. Dean is seventeen, but the statistic still applies to him. The thick metal will be a greater barrier if he happens to have an accident. Castiel slides into the backseat while Sam and Dean climb in the front. Dean laughs and throws his arms up victoriously, claiming that they had a successful prison escape.

“School is not a prison, Dean,” Castiel says blandly.

“It is when you’ve been going for twelve years,” he sighed back, looking up in the narrow mirror above him. He is looking at Castiel, but is also using the mirror to navigate his way out of the parking spot.

“Twelve years is just a breath.” Perhaps not for a being whose life span is approximately eighty years, Castiel remembers, and then he shakes his head. “A very _long_ breath,” he amends.

Castiel can only see Dean’s eyes when he smiles, but it is evident by the way the corners crinkle when he laughs. “Yeah, like a breath you hold when Louis Whitmore is sitting behind us at lunch.”

“He does possess a foul odor at times,” Castiel agrees quietly.

The conversation fades as Dean turns out of the school parking lot onto the main road. Castiel spreads his fingers across the upholstery to his sides as he watches the road be swallowed through the windshield. The purr of the car’s engine is deeply natural, even though it’s a machine.

Three minutes into their drive, Dean lets go of the steering wheel with one hand to adjust a knob embedded in the console. Music roared to life through the speakers, heavy guitar chords and inflamed drumming patterns blasting in the small space. Sam complains, Dean laughs, and Castiel listens.

The drive continues with more songs that sound generically the same, until the car rolls to a stop outside a strip of stores. The three of them climb out of the car, and Castiel follows behind Sam and Dean, eyes cascading radially to ensure that there are no wandering eyes. It is more difficult to sense the presence of demons, unless he looks upon the body it wears. Castiel can see past the flesh and the rotting shreds of what one might call a soul, but it is something much different and _darker._ He must fathom that demons know of their location, because Sam was infected as an infant in the same exact home he occupies now, but that does not mean Castiel will allow them to live if he sees one walking about Lawrence.

Dean throws a glance over his shoulder at Castiel. “Stop glaring at that stop sign and get your ass in here.”

“I am not—” Castiel begins, but realizes finally that it is just a waste of time to explain his actions.

The store that Castiel follows them into is a record store. He discovers that is what it’s called when he asks Dean, who impatiently (not angrily so, though) describes that _this_ is why the world as no good music, because no one has any concept of record stores anymore. It is better for Dean to think that Castiel is merely uncultured rather than a celestial being, so he says nothing and follows Dean around. Sam finds refuge in a section of a store with an array of thin paper books Dean calls comics, while Dean all but drags Castiel to the back corner. Large shelves that rise about to his waist hold hundreds of large, square-shaped pieces of paper with plastic disks inside. Dean eventually plucks one from a stack and slides out a disk, holding it perpendicular to his nose as his eyes stare across the disk. Castiel watches, wondering what process Dean is going through—perhaps examining the quality of the item, though he is not sure what it is for. He leans closer, and Dean’s eyes dart in his direction but he does not turn his head. Castiel pretends not to notice a smile on his lips, or that his tongue darts out to dampen his mouth.

“You know we’ve...kinda talked about this,” Dean breathes, barely even audible, and Castiel senses his breathing hitch. “Personal space.”

Under the scrutiny of Dean’s eyes, Castiel does not feel the discomfort he know he should. In fact, he is fascinated by the rapid flicker of emotions in his eyes. Concentrating, Castiel sees Dean’s soul expand outside his body, its warmth swaying like a wave out, and then it withdraws back inside.

“Yes,” Castiel says and takes a small step back. “Apologies.”

“Yeah,” coughs Dean as he forcibly returns his gaze to the record.“Led Zeppelin. I got all his records on tape in my car, but I’m still trying to build my record collection.” He blows it, dust flicking in the fluorescents above.

“You do not have this one, then?”

Dean shakes his head. “Not on record.” A smile grows on his lips. “IV—this one has _Stairway to Heaven_ on it—one of my favorites. You like it?”

“I—” Castiel starts, then sharply nods his head. “I have never heard of Led Zeppelin,” he confides. Heat flushes his face, sharp and vivid and he has little time to rationalize that he is _embarrassed_ before Dean has him booked by the wrist.

“You’re gonna hear him now, Cas.” Dean is practically dragging Castiel through the store by his arm, and they come to the back corner where there is a veil of olive-colored beads hanging from a door frame. Dean tosses a smile over his shoulder as he parts the veil and pulls Castiel inside. The lights are more dim, more warm, and the shadows of their bodies are much thicker across the floor. “You haven’t lived until you’ve heard _Stairway to Heaven_ , Cas, trust me.”

Castiel is about to stubbornly express that, yes, he trusts Dean implicitly before Dean is close to him again and strapping incredibly large headphones over his ears. He laughs, but Castiel can barely hear it over the steady start of strumming. Then he puts a pair of identical headphones just as a flute glides to his ears, followed several seconds later by a soft male vocal. Dean fumbles with a record player, the source of the music no doubt. Castiel’s eyes are attached to Dean’s face, as his eyes flicker closed and he begins to mouth the words. Is he mouthing the lyrics—or—?

He slips one of the padded earpieces from his head, turning one attentive ear toward Dean. He is singing, and Castiel does not ever recall hearing such a pure sound. Dean does have a pleasant voice, but speaking is incomparable to one’s speaking voice, when there liquid emotion bubbling on his lips.

_“There's a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure_

_'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings._

_In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings,_

_Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.”_

Awe strikes Castiel deep in his chest, and there is a burning heat that erupts when Dean’s eyes snap open and he looks at him, a new expression on his face that Castiel wants to investigate. He never wanted so much to prod through Dean’s thoughts—he has forgone doing so in order to respect his privacy—but the unquenchable curiosity makes that self-made promise burn away.

“ _Oh, it makes me wonder,_ ” Dean sings softer, and takes off his headphones. “There, we can listen to it another time. Maybe in the car,” Dean says quickly and removes the record from the player. There is no more heat, no more mystery, as he stores the disk in its paper casing. “Let’s go, I’m hungry.” He forces in front of Castiel, bumping his shoulder, as he pushes through the veil of beads. “Sammy!”

Castiel stills for a moment, one headphone still closed over his ear. The vague and empty static is enough to send him into a trance, and for some reason he is sharply impaled in the chest by a deep _need_ to have Dean look at him like that again.

He gently removes the headphones and leaves the dimly-lit space, humming the melody of _Stairway to Heaven_ softly, as if the song actually spoke of a stairway that descended from the shadows and betrayal of heaven, to Earth, where he is enthralled by small things like a teenager's gaze.

 

* * *

 

Dean drops Castiel off at a random house that he claimed to be his own—Castiel could not simply tell him that he would be going back to the Winchester household as soon as the car was out of sight.

He sits in at Dean’s desk while he waits for the brothers to arrive. Castiel does not know why he prefers the older brother’s room—perhaps because the walls are a light, sky blue while Dean’s bedspread is a deep olive. Like the sky and the grass, it is natural and _relaxing_ for Castiel to just stare into, meditate in.

The house’s foundation stirs slightly when the front door slams. Castiel rises from Dean’s desk and listens as Dean’s voice carries through the maze of hallways.

“Leave me alone, Sam.” There is a particular short gruff that is not natural in Dean’s voice, especially toward Sam. Castiel blinks and he is downstairs in the mouth of the kitchen. Sam is climbing into a bar stool and throwing a speculative glance at his brother.

“No,” Sam mutters stubbornly. “You’ve been acting weird since the record store. Actually, you’ve been acting weird for weeks—but now you’re cranky like an old man.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” Dean throws back over his shoulder as he rummages through the pantry. He pulls out a bag of Doritos and shoves his hand deep inside, fisting a handful and stuffing it into his mouth.

“Shut up.” Sam’s eyes narrow. “You eat when you’re anxious, Dean. What is _up_ with you?”

Castiel takes a few steps closer, standing adjacent to Sam so he can see Dean’s face better. He chews like he has a personal vendetta against carbohydrates and his eyebrows are pulled together—not angry, but _hurt_. Castiel feels himself swallow uncomfortably.

“Nothing,” Dean says again, more stiff. He’s not trying to make a convincing argument anymore.

“It’s Cas, isn’t it?” Castiel flinches at the mention of his nickname, hyper aware that he is actually _eavesdropping._ It is different, when he has never been the topic of their conversations. Yes, his name might be thrown around while Castiel watches over them, but never had Sam drawn his name into a conversation concerning Dean’s anxiety.

It seems like the appropriate thing to do would be to leave, but Castiel does not want to. He wants to hear Dean’s answer, or at least observe his reaction to Sam’s question. Maybe if he can figure out what Dean is feeling, why the long glances they share make his body curl with dichotomous sickness and excitement, he can make it stop. He can stop feeling like the Winchesters, Dean in particular, hold him.

“No,” Dean growls, venom in his voice as he chews. “Don’t.”

“When I see you with him, you’re different. You’re nicer,” Sam offers gently.

“I’m a nice fucking guy, Sam. I’m nice to you.”

“But I’m your brother, it’s different.”

“Well maybe Cas is different, too,” Dean blurts out, running a hand through his hair as blush flares across his neck. His hand lowers to pluck at his already-loose collar and, even incorporeal, Castiel feels the need to do the same. “He’s so fucking _weird_.” There is a brief moment of clarity in Dean’s eyes before he turns from Sam. “And I like it.”

Castiel blinks, flustering to understand the context of this conversation.

“ _Wow,_ I really don’t want to hear about your kinks man,” Sam says. Dean grumbles and walks from the kitchen—or rather, _stomps—_ and to his bedroom.

Castiel trails behind, walking straight through the door which Dean dramatically slams behind him. He tilts his head as Dean dives into his bed, stuffs his face into the nearest pillow, and then lets out a frustrated growl. He wishes he knew what was wrong with Dean, why Sam’s words had triggered this agitated state. Admittedly, Castiel’s need to amend Dean’s problems partially stemmed from his own internal conflicts.

He steps toward the bed and leans against the side, suddenly compelled to touch Dean. He cannot, because in his current state he would burn Dean just like the day Castiel emblazoned a handprint on Dean’s shoulder. More importantly, Castiel _should not_ touch Dean Winchester! There were few words to describe how taboo it is for an angel, of all beings, to crave human touch. To comfort a human with touch is entirely different than wanting that touch reciprocated.

Castiel _wants_.

He knows that he does, that his odd connection with his vessel has given his range of emotion and human empathy new range, but he never anticipated that his thoughts would verge into dangerously... _affectionate_ territories. He is not naive, he knows that Dean watches him thoroughly and part of him is confused while a deeply concealed part of Castiel is excited by wayward and stolen glances.

Castiel forces himself from the bed, disgusted by his lack of discipline and he quickly decides that his proximity to Dean is not helping. He closes his eyes, letting his wings carry him to the only other safe place he knows. The warehouse, warded with sigils that Anael created.

“Castiel.” His own name reaches his ears and he turns around. Anael stands before him, statuous and solid, as if she had been waiting. Castiel is not unfamiliar with angels’ ability to be unmoving, unaffected by time. Being with humans has altered his perspective in many ways, and he realizes that this is one of them.

He tilts his chin forward in a short greeting.

“You look troubled, brother,” she says fondly as she moves toward Castiel. “Humanity is not treating you well?”

He sighs and looks up, eyes meeting a metal paneled roof rather than the sky which his eyes seek. “It is...not,” he replies slowly. “I do not understand much, but I feel.” His eyes lower and lock with hers. “I feel everything.”

Thoughtfully, she comes even closer. She is curious, and Castiel does not mistake the slightest bit of envy in her eyes. “What do you feel?”

“I feel want. I want to be with the brothers, but not just watching over them. I take...I am _happy_ when they speak to me, even if I do not know what to say. And when Dean watches me—Anael, you must help me not become consumed by this.” She smiles at his desperation, which causes a little anger to to spark in his chest, causing his lips to downturn. “Don’t mock my—my compromise!”

“I do not mock you, Castiel,” she replies. “You like Dean, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Castiel replies. “Dean is my friend. And so is Sam. Friendship entails liking.”

“You misunderstand. Humans have thin boundaries between friendship and... other things. Your cheeks are still flushed, your breath unsteady. All are physical reactions to one being near a romantic interest.”

If Castiel’s cheeks were flushed before, he cannot fathom how dark they are now as—as he _blushes?_ That sharp stab in his stomach that makes him want to heave the nonexistent contents of his stomach is quickly identified as embarrassment.

“I do not think of Dean that way,” Castiel says quickly and firmly. “I do not want to speak of this any longer. Tell me—what have you heard from Heaven?” 

She sighed and nods, complicit to Castiel’s forceful change of subject. “They have finally cut me off, but not before I siphoned a lot of power from the Nucleus into my Grace.”

“Good,” Castiel sighs. “One of us will need to be at full strength when—when we reach the next step in our plan.” Castiel releases a heavy sigh and rubs his face. “Which we do not have.”

“I am working on something,” Anael promises and touches his shoulder. “I have been searching for Gabriel.”

“ _Gabriel?_ ” Castiel mimics incredulously. “The archangel?”

“Who else?” murmurs Anael. “I wager he will have a strategy to prevent the war. He holds the secrets of Heaven reserved only for God’s highest angels.”

“Gabriel _left_ Heaven,” Castiel intones the reminder. “He does not care about us, and he certainly does not care about humans. The archangels generally only behave when God is around with a raised hand; Gabriel will not help us.”

“You are of so little faith, Castiel.”

“God is the only one I ever had faith in, true faith, and he abandoned us,” Castiel growls, anger lining his voice as it grows thin. He does not like to think about how God has betrayed all his creations—leaving violent creatures to rule all creation. How did He not anticipate all this chaos?

“Nevertheless, I’m going to find him.” Anael turns on her heel and looks away from Castiel with a sour grimace. “And I will do everything in my power to gather intelligence from him.” Her eyes flash back to Castiel, sorrow in them. “If you recall, I’m good at obtaining information.”

Somber, Castiel looks downward. “I apologize for upsetting you. If it is any consolation, I do have faith in you.”

Anael’s lips twitch only slightly, but her anger dissolves. “It is. Thank you, Castiel.”

He takes a short step forward and touches her shoulder. He squeezes, feeling the warmth radiate through her clothes. Touch, Castiel has learned, is the embodiment of comfort. Biologically, even babies chemically react to being cradled close in their mothers arms. Skin against skin creates the sensation of not being alone. And—perhaps, that is his greatest fear of all.

 


	4. Han Solo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “God is indifferent to film succession,” Castiel comments.
> 
> Dean rolls his eyes. “And I hate prequels, so let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

The following day is a Friday, and it’s also the first time Castiel has ever been called from class. The announcement comes via an office aid, who informs his English teacher that Castiel’s presence is requested in the main office. Castiel ignores the chatter around him, mocking him as if he were to be disciplined. As if he had done anything, Castiel scoffs as he gathers his belongings and accompanies the office aid down the empty halls.

He is directed into the principal’s office, and he immediately registers that Dean fills one of the two plush chairs that sit before the desk situated in the center of the room. Castiel tenses immediately as he takes in Dean’s shrugged shoulders and perpetual grimace that becomes more of a hurt expression when he looks over his shoulder to see Castiel.

“Have a seat, Mr. Novak,” Principal Adler intones, breaking Castiel’s focus on his charge. He obliges, laying his belongings on the corner of his desk despite the glare that action rewards him with. Castiel has observed Victor Adler walking the halls and is disgusted by his pride. His ego is so swollen, it can only be expressed through embarrassing student discipline.

“Do you boys think it is wise to take up a habit of skipping school during your senior year?” he inquires calmly, looking to Dean. “Orin your case, Mr. Winchester, re-adopting your bad habits?”

Castiel looks to Dean, feeling a sympathetic throb of embarrassment when Dean’s face grows red. He fears that Adler is about to exploit Dean, by humiliating him. 

“I assure you, it is not a habit Dean nor I will be making, Principal Adler,” Castiel says tersely, yet politely. “It will not happen again.”

“I appreciate that you are trying to be a positive influence on St. Michael’s most eligible slacker, but I’m afraid you can’t control him.” He peels his eyes toward Dean. “And I guess, in terms of punishment, I will have to up the ante since you just don’t know when to quit, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Hit me with your best shot.”

Castiel see’s a flash of pleasure in Adler’s gaze.  

“Splendid. You and Castiel will be responsible for cleaning the visiting team’s locker room before the game tonight.”

“What?” Dean demands as he slides forward on his seat, not quite standing up, but still challenging. “Why the visiting team’s locker? Those are twice as disgusting as ours!”

Adler merely smiles. “Precisely.”

As Dean swallows his temper, his eyes flash to Castiel. They exchange a prolonged glance—Castiel nodding to accept the latent apology in Dean’s eyes; he rustles beneath Castiel’s gaze and sighs. “You can’t do that to Cas, though. He’s a first offender.”

Laughter bursts from Adler’s lips. “Well, Mr. Winchester. You have a point. However, this way, Mr. Novak will be a _last_ offender too.”

Dean attempts to make an argument, but Castiel touches his shoulder and he grows silent. Adler dismisses them back to class, and Dean grabs his backpack from the floor and and rises from his seat, slamming the door open with an open palm. Castiel rushes to follow, but Dean is already exiting the main office by the time he is in the doorframe of Adler’s.

“Dean!” Castiel calls. He does not understand why Dean is walking so fast.

After catching up with Dean, Castiel lays a hand on his shoulder. He lets it lay there until he suddenly shrugs out from underneath the touch. “You shouldn’t be going to detention.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Dean sighs, pace coming to a halt. The halls are empty, eerily silent, and Castiel can hear Dean’s breathing. He is still upset about the visit to Adler’s office. “Because you didn’t do anything.”

“I skipped class, just like you and Sam—” Castiel’s thoughts trailed off, as he realized that Sam hadn’t been called to the office. “Sam was not punished, though.”

Laughter falls from Dean’s mouth, but it isn’t genuine. Castiel hears how the air behind it is structured to be sharp, to be cruel. “That’s because Sam’s new, and an awesome little genius. They don’t punish the smart kids.”

“You’re smart,” Castiel chides as he narrows his eyes. “You are just apathetic towards your grades. Besides, that does not explain why I’m not exempt from punishment; I am a new student as well and my grades are flawless.”

“Don’t be so modest, now, Cas.”

“I wasn’t being modest—” Oh. “That was sarcasm.”

A smile forms on Dean’s expression that nearly reaches his eyes. “Yep.” He looks to his feet and starts walking again, and Castiel follows. Nothing but air and silence is between them as they stride shoulder to shoulder, Castiel watching him out of the corner of his eye. Dean’s eyes remain on the ground, his lips twisting in what he can only interpret is indecision.

“You got detention because of me, Cas,” he says suddenly, ashamedly. “Because you’re my friend.”

Those words reverberate in Castiel’s mind in ways he never thought possible. Inexplicable warmth pulses from his mind, down his spine and to his toes—a sensation that he cannot even label because it is so foreign. It is satisfaction. It is heat. Happiness.

But Dean’s expression does not share remotely the same sentiment.

 

* * *

 

A putrid odor enters Castiel’s nostrils, nauseatingly wafting through his body as each reflex in his digestive system commands him to the contents of his _empty_ stomach.

The locker room is a dark dungeon-like room that is reachable by going down old concrete steps just outside the school’s stadium. According to Dean, everything at this school is outdated, but Castiel has nothing to compare it to, so he cannot be a determiner of the facility’s merit. However, it does not take too much observation for Castiel to comprehend that the locker room is _filthy._ There is a plethora of various bodily fluids lining the floors, the handles of the rusted lockers, and _especially_ the nearly rotted benches lining the outskirts of the room.

Dean is balling his fist in the shoulder of Castiel’s dress shirt. They had come straight from class so they could finish their detention as soon as possible, with some the janitor’s cleaning supplies cart in tow.

“Do not touch _anything,_ ” Dean says in a low voice, filled with disgust and warning. Castiel is indifferent to bacteria and filth, but he nods dutifully.

“Then how are we going to clean?”

A smile breaks across Dean’s lips as he pulls a box from the cart. Castiel squints as he reads the box: _Latex Cleaning Gloves._

Dean pops a pair from the opening on the box and throws them in Castiel’s direction. He struggles against friction, pushing his fingers inside the gloves, but not quite going in the opening with as much ease as Dean. He blows a frustrated puff of air from his lips, and his frown deepens when he registers Dean’s amused laughter.

“Having trouble?” Dean asks, but he does not ask permission to touch Castiel when he takes his hands and begins to force the latex over his fingers. Castiel’s eyes widen at the touch, how one of Dean’s hands cuffs his wrist for leverage, while the other smoothes the plastic over his skin.He finds himself swallowing and moving his eyes to Dean’s face, whose eyes sense Castiel staring, and he stares right back. Dean’s hands are no longer navigating across his own; all attention is focused through his eyes.

He is pure, and Castiel lets himself gaze at Dean through another lens—a lens through which he can see the boundary of Dean’s being burst through his skin as his soul swallows the space around them. It’s warm and it’s comfort, and Castiel basks in the heat as he gasps. Never before had he seen Dean’s soul encompassing such a wide area, as if he were trying to fill the entire room. Castiel’s aching Grace reaches out, perhaps expanding from the bounds of his vessel, his body, and touches it.

Dean’s soul quickly retracts and Dean pulls away and mutters “sorry” as if the moment had not been anything but celestial.

“Okay—yeah, so, you’re all protected.” Dean smiles and snorts. “It’s always good to wear a glove, Cas.”

Castiel gazes downward at his hands. “Does that mean it’s even better to wear two?”

Dean snorts even louder and curls over. “Man, you're killing me.”

“I…” Castiel murmurs, unsure why Castiel's inquiries could kill—and why that's funny. “Thank you?”

“No, thank _you._ ”

It takes several minutes for Dean to recover from his fit of laughter—and he _refuses_ to explain the joke that Castiel unintentionally contributed to—and then they begin to clean. Dean directs Castiel to take a spray bottle of cleaning liquid and soak the floor. Eventually the floor becomes so slick that Castiel has to take short, careful steps in order not to slip. Eventually he grows tired of being imbalanced and lets his wings slip from the cavity parallel to his spine. They are invisible to the human eye, but he lets the tips touch the floor in order to give him more leverage.

Meanwhile, Dean pushes a mop behind him, cleaning up the soap that has soaked thoroughly into the floor. He is fast, Castiel notes, and Dean feels Castiel’s observing eyes.

“My chore around the house is mopping and vacuuming,” Dean explains.

Castiel nods and removes his eyes forcibly from Dean. “I finished—what shall I do next?”

“Grab that bathroom cleaner and spray down the showers. Make sure you get the faucet and the drain and anywhere you see soap scum.”

Castiel does not bother to ask what soap scum is and proceeds to saturate the showers with the spray soap. This particular liquid turns to foam, and then expands when it touches the surface. Fascinated, Castiel sprays a little in his hand. It grows there, just the same. He wipes his gloved hand on the wall, shrugging off the foam. Nearly no inch of the showers go unsprayed because every spot looks like an abscess that needs to be sponged clean.

“I think you went a little overboard with the Mr. Clean,” Castiel hears Dean laugh from behind him. Castiel turns to meet Dean’s amused eyes, shrugging as he walks to pass the bottle off to Dean.

“Better too much than too little,” Castiel murmurs.

Dean seems to consider this, and then agrees, “Damn straight.”

He comes behind Castiel once again, this time with a bristled sponge. He turns on one shower and dodges its spray, only intending to get the sponge wet. Castiel watches Dean, curious when stray drops of water hit his dress shirt, soaking through and causing the fabric to stick to his skin.

“Are you going to help me or what?” Dean peers over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows. It’s completely irrational when Castiel stumbles over his own feet to retrieve a sponge. He blames it on surprise, ignoring the affect that Dean’s gaze has on him.

He squats close to the ground as he cleans the drains, not daring to press his knees into the dirty, soapy water.

While he looks down, sloshing his gloved hands across the bottom of the floors, he feels a splash of water from above him. It whips across the back of his neck, seeping down past the collar of his shirt and across the ridges of his spine. Castiel raises his eyes up, seeing Dean smiling above him as he holds his hand beneath the shower head.

He glares. “Why did you splash water at me?”

“I didn’t,” Dean says, snapping his arms up, like surrender.

“There is no one else here, Dean,” Castiel deadpans.

“Still wasn’t me,” he insists.

_Oh._

Castiel rises, and Dean’s lips grow with a smile, even as Castiel saunters toward him. It occurs to Castiel that he is not even pretending, living in a ruse when runs his hand under the water and gathers a small puddle in his palm. His heart races with anticipation, because Dean’s eyes are dark and menacing. A challenge.

“I thought we were friends, Dean,” Castiel sighs, dropping his chin, so that his eyes were hooded as he came closer to Dean. The spray of the shower faucet did not distract him, even as it hit his shoes and began to soak through the patent leather and saturated his socks.

Dean does not reply, but bites back a smile. Before he can make any movement, Castiel snaps his wrist and heave the gathered water in his palm toward Dean’s face.

He goes rigid; his lips clench shut as he slowly opens his eyes to reveal a disbelieving glare.“Cas—did _you_ just splash water at me?”

“An eye for an eye,” Castiel replies simply.

“Didn’t Gandhi say that would make the whole world blind, or something?” Dean takes a small step forward, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. Castiel sees his arm slowly extending toward the stream of water, his fingertip brushing it, testing it, before he begins to capture some water in his palm.

“Or something.”

Castiel is surprised when Dean does not retaliate; he simply sighs and his arm drops. The unspoken tension between them evaporates. “Listen, Cas, about earlier, after the visit to Adler’s—I didn’t mean to be so short with you.”

“I did not register any brevity in your words—though you were attempting to avoid conversation,” Castiel responds as he tilts his head. Dean breathes one short line of laughter, shaking his head.

“No—short as in an _asshole_ ,” he clarifies. “I just was angry because I got you into this. You’re acting like it’s no big deal, but this is actually hell.”

“I think there is a lot less water in Hell,” Castiel murmurs.

Dean resumes his cleaning ministrations, scrubbing the sponge along the grout of the floor. Castiel decidedly kneels so that he is somewhat level with his charge. “But Dean, I am with you and that is a consolation, I suppose.”

“Why do you even wanna be around me?” Dean murmurs, glancing up to meet Castiel’s eyes.

“Because you are good,” is all Castiel can bring himself to say—and even those simple words ground between his teeth because of the emotion. It’s so vivid now, more overwhelming than it was before, and Castiel wanted nothing more than to run. To fly. Dean is dangerously close to his heart now, and Castiel is not sure if he should run into the flames to find out if they truly burn, or if he should keep these flaring emotions at bay. They are God given, but are they his to possess?

Dean interrupts his train of thought when he touches Castiel’s shoulder. “You should come to my house tonight. Mom’s making Mexican and it’s freaking awesome.”

It takes a moment for Castiel to reply, because there is no denying the flurry of nerves that knot in his stomach because of Dean’s hand touching his shoulder. “I—I hope you mean Mexican _food_.”

“Dude.” Dean smiles. “Yeah, she makes these killer quesadillas. And she might even have made—” he turns his head toward the ceiling and knots his gloved hands together, and shakes the bound fist like an exaggerated prayer “—pie!”

His enthusiasm is confusing, because food should be for subsidence and not pleasure. He’s observed that Dean eats far more than required and with much more excitement, especially for pie desserts. Castiel agrees to this dinner tentatively, and the nerves in his stomach multiply.

When Dean smiles at his confirmation, it all dissolves, and he feels no shame when happiness rises in his throat, and plays on his lips like a smile.

 

* * *

 

Castiel never imagined that his defection from the leagues of Heaven to the human race would be so be so serene. He is not so disillusioned to believe that twenty-three minutes constitute an uneventful evening, but Castiel is becoming increasingly fluent in the art of being ignorant.

Oddly enough, it is easy to pretend that he is not an angel and not sorely aware of the impending apocalypse as he stares down the upholstered black dashboard of Dean’s car. From his angle, it seems as if the hood of the car swallows the asphalt beneath. He allows himself to take an unneeded breath and close his eyes, simply allowing the hum of the engine reverberate through the metal frame of the car, into the seats, and down his spine as he pictures that this is a paradise in heaven.

Angels do not experience stress as humans do; they do not feel the twist of inflamed nerves in their stomach like Castiel does currently—well, perhaps because angels do not _have_ stomachs. Regardless, angels have anxieties that are dealt with through extensive meditation. The manifestation of the area to which angels travel varies. Castiel usually forgoes meditation and instead chooses to transverse across Heaven, through the paradises until he finds one that’s merit soothes him.

Idly, Castiel wonders if Dean’s paradise might be like this—an open and seemingly endless highway with cracked pavement and blurs of green and the sky peering from up above. If it is, Castiel promises himself that he will visit Dean’s heaven, as never has he felt so calm.

All delusions of peace shatter as Dean lessens the car’s velocity, and the vehicle cuts to their right, parking parallel to the curb just outside the Winchester household. Castiel grows rigid and presses back into his seat as his fingers clench into the leather. There will be no visiting Dean’s heaven, _ever._ Even if he succeeds, he shall be hunted for all eternity until time devours him. How long will he even be able to sustain control over his vessel without being powered by the heavenly Nucleus itself? Not a millennia; and, even if he fades, he will not find his way back to Heaven. If anything, he shall be cast into the pit to rot with Lucifer for being a traitor.

The juxtaposition of his actions against Lucifer’s should not be so blatantly similar—but they are, and Castiel is physically sickened. He always thought that he was indeed performing God’s will, but it was God who crafted the apocalypse himself. Who was Castiel to question His malevolence? Perhaps the plan all along was to cast children into an angelic war out of pure amusement and spite. God did, after all, leave His first children with little to no direction.

God is a being of divine wonder, but Castiel decides he—he is _cruel._

Dean suddenly speaks and tears Castiel from his reverie. He asks Castiel what is wrong, to which Castiel replies by giving a sharp jerk of his chin. So many things are wrong. Castiel is wrong for ever conceiving that he should know God’s will better than Zachariah, or Michael for that matter. It was he who was ordered by God himself to put Lucifer in his cage, and it was he who was declared the safeguard of earth when Lucifer escaped.

But did God anticipate angels cracking open the locks to hell to expedite the prophesy?

It becomes increasingly difficult for Castiel to shield his emotions, because his fear and rage are filtering through a human’s mind. They reveal themselves on Castiel’s face with pinched lips and knotted eyebrows, a light sheen of sweat glazing his forehead.

“Cas, talk to me.” Dean’s words break through once more and Castiel turns his head. Dean’s eyes are narrowed, though not angry. Perplexed, maybe. Castiel might actually be concerning Dean, which would explain why his expression shifts from studying to gentle. Dean’s eyes soulfully graze over Castiel, an examination, and he cannot help but shift uncomfortably under the gaze.

“You’re not nervous about meeting my Ma are you?” Dean asks.

“I—” Castiel begins, but snaps his lips shut to consider his answer. Meeting Mary Winchester had actually been among the least of Castiel’s worries until Dean brought it up. John’s existence is of little consequence, as he is always absent, but Mary could prove to be a problem. Her eyes are finely adjusted, due to her conditioned upbringing, to identify the supernatural. Regardless of any paper-thin façade Castiel can pull off in a sea of teenaged boys, Mary may actually find Castiel out of the ordinary. He has been in a human vessel for the first time in centuries for a matter of weeks and it is _ridiculous_ for him to claim any talent in the realm of imitation.

Dean does not wait for Castiel to provide another answer, and laughs loudly. “Dude, chill. Mom’s _really_ cool—she will love you, in fact.” He smiles privately. “She’ll probably want to adopt you are something.”

“I don’t understand why she would like me,” Castiel replies. “She hasn’t even met me.”

“Well Cas, if you assumed that people won’t like you just because you’ve never met, the whole world would hate each other.”

Castiel tries desperately to wrap his head around that loosely formed logic, and then vouches to ignore it. “I am not nervous. I am... _chill_.”

“Good.” Dean touches his shoulder, but it’s more of a grip. Castiel nods to Dean, and then they both simultaneously move to exit the car.

As Castiel predicted, moving through the Winchester house in his corporeal form proves to be a more…enlightening experience. It’s particularly pleasing to not be required to blend into the floral wallpaper or cringe away from moving bodies in fear of burning them in his invisible form. He walks beside Dean, whose elbows brush against Castiel every so often and it’s so casual that he can actually begin to fathom humanly closeness.

Sam greets them when they enter the kitchen, where he sits at the dining table hunched over a stack of notebooks, pen in hand.

“Look! It’s the trouble-making duo!”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean mutters distastefully and goes to his brother. Castiel watches assiduously as Dean tousles Sam’s hair.

Sam shakes his head as he tries to escape Dean’s hand. “Eugh! Stop!”

“No—this is your punishment for skipping, young man,” Dean tuts. “Since you didn’t have to scrub _shit_ for it.”

“You’re the one who made me skip though!”

Dean heaves a sigh and points to himself. “Does it _look_ like this beautiful face cares. Nope. No cares for you, little brother. Now do your homework.”

“I _hate_ you, jerk.” Sam grumbles, begrudgingly dropping his eyes down into his book.

“No, you love me. Bitch.” Dean flashes an amused smile at Castiel and walks back over to him. “I think Mom’s out in the garden. She’s always like this when Dad leaves.”

Dean walks toward the exterior door located in the back corner of the kitchen. He follows, uncertainty rising in his throat as his heart rate increases.

He has spent very little time in the house’s backyard. It’s small and partly fenced in, but mostly lined with dark green shrubs that are most likely intended to give the yard privacy. Mary is kneeling in a flowerbed just a few meters to the left of the steps down which Dean, and then Castiel, descend.

When she sees Dean, a frown forms on her lips. “Young man—” she begins, but then stops when she sees Castiel. Her face immediately relaxes, then spreads into a different kind of grimace, one of confusion. “Who is this?”

“Castiel Novak—Cas, meet my mom,” Dean says with a smile. It’s utterly forced, as far as Castiel can tell.

Mary rises and slaps her gloved hands against her thighs, brushing the loose chunks of dirt off them before removing one and approaching Castiel. She smiles as she reaches her hand to Castiel’s, and he remembers to shake it firmly.

“Nice to meet you, Castiel, that's an interesting name,” she says, watching him in a manner that Castiel discerns as quite protective. His assumptions were correct; Mary Winchester would speculate whether Castiel was a monster or a demon. But she does not vocalize her hesitancy, which speaks to her own talent in maintaining a façade.

“A family name," he lies. "It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Winchester.” Castiel tries a smile and he hopes it does not seem too forced.

Mary redirects her attention to Dean with a half-hearted scowl. “You’ve been dragging your brother out of school for years, and now you’ve suckered another kid into skipping?”

“Eh…” Dean murmurs, looking a way. “I didn’t hold a gun to his head or nothing.”

“Dean Winchester, you are just like your father.” Her eyes light up in fondness as they look down. “We’ll have a talk later, when your friend—” she gazes back at Castiel “—leaves. Dinner’s in the oven.”

They all return inside the house, and Dean directs Castiel to sit in the seat between him and Sam, who has put away his books and smiles at Castiel when he sits down.

Mary dons an apron as she makes the final preparations on dinner. She sets a bowl of some food item Castiel does not recognize on the table.

“Tortilla chips,” Dean informs Castiel, apparently identifying his perplexed expression. He and Sam simultaneously reach into the bowl and retrieve the crisp, pale chips.

“Eugh! Mom! Get a little salt-happy?” Dean groans discontentedly. Sam makes a noise that sounds like despondent agreement.

“Oh come on, now,” she replies as she saunters toward the table. “They can’t be that bad.”

“I feel like I just licked the ocean floor,” Sam mutters.

She sighs. “Maybe Cas can help me out? You tell me if they are too salty for you, sweetie,” Mary says with a bright smile. Castiel meets her eyes, and he is suddenly struck by the realization that she is testing him. He takes a chip from the bowel quickly, but presses it to his lips slowly. He has never eaten human food before; he only has an echo of instinct resounding from Jimmy’s stored thoughts. He plucks it past his lips and bites down, crunching the chip between his front teeth, and proceeds to grind the other bits with his molars.

His tongue flares in disagreement and he immediately registers the taste as salt. Rock salt, in fact, ground into tiny crystals that saturate the chip.

“Salty,” Castiel agrees shortly, looking to his side, to Dean. Dean raises his eyebrows and then turns to his mother.

“See?”

“Fine—I’ll pour you a new bowl with less,” she promises the three of them.

The dinner continues with little incident and a surplus of small talk that Castiel was not prepared to partake in. Mary asks probing questions about Castiel’s life, and he delivers the story which he crafted and fed to Dean and Sam earlier in their relationship.

“I am originally from Pontiac, Indiana. My parents desired to indulge me in a more prestigious education at St. Michael’s.”

“Not that I am unimpressed by my sons’ institution…but why St. Michael’s? It’s not the _most_ prestigious school in the country, let alone Kansas.”

Castiel feels heat flush in his face, and hopes that the burn of his lie is not visible. “I don’t question the will of my Father,” Castiel simply murmurs. “I can only say that my being here is nothing but divine providence.”

Mary nods slowly, gives him an odd look, and then looks down at her plate.

The silence must have lasted too long for comfort, because Dean soon clears his throat. “Yeah, I think we’re done.”

“But Castiel barely touched his dinner,” Mary protests. His eyes flicker downward to his plate and he frowns. He does not particularly like the taste of these ‘quesadillas’—they are quite cheesy and do not dissolve easily on the tongue.

“I eat fairly large breakfasts and snack throughout the day—I assure you I am satiated.” Lying is coming far too easily now, but Castiel supposes that is a good thing.

“Yeah, mom, he’s good.” Dean stands up and takes his plate—and grabs Castiel’s on the way—to the sink and runs hot water under then before waving at him. “C’mon Cas, let me show you my room.”

Sam sniggers, which promptly results in Mary crying, “Samuel Winchester!”

Castiel does not understand, so he merely follows Dean.

He knows the exact corridors to travel, to reach Dean’s room, but he follows dutifully right behind him. Once they reach his door, the one at the very end of the hall, Dean pushes it open and throws a smile over his shoulder.

Castiel looks around, feigning interest, as Dean takes a seat on the edge of his bed. He gestures next to him, running a hand along the corner of the comforter. It’s an invitation that Castiel accepts.

The bed gives away to Castiel’s weight, the metal springs beneath groaning as he adjusts himself.

“I’m glad you got to meet my mom.” Castiel lifts his brows in interest when Dean speaks and adjusts his leg so that it arches against the corner of the mattress. Dean’s stare endures, as if there is no limit of examination of Castiel. He does not recall Dean’s expression being so intense in the weeks past. It takes a moment to grasp that Dean expressions have become increasingly more vigilant. It disturbs him, only slightly, and Castiel does not even know why. He is ambivalent to eye contact, as his current predicament requires extensive observation of human behavior.

“You were... adamant about it,” Castiel deadpans, quiet as he continues to watch Dean. His brows knit tighter. “Why?”

Dean’s cheeks redden as he shrugs. “I dunno—it’s just the thing you do, I guess.”

“I do?” Castiel asks.

“No—you as in people,” Dean clarifies in a rush, inhaling a shaking breath. “I mean— _us._ ”

He considers Dean’s words before letting his frown grow deeper. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t.” Dean’s laughter depressed as soon as it passed is hips, and he gave his head a firm shake before rising off the bed. “I got something for you.”

He opens the upper drawer of his nightstand and rustled inside. Dean pulls a box out and flips it around in his hands before handing it to Castiel.

“What is this?”

“Open it,” Dean says, and Castiel does. It’s a cellular device, he discovers, and Castiel curiously picks it up. It does not look like Dean’s, nor Sam’s. Its screen is on a small hinge that flips backward when Castiel pries his thumb beneath it. “I—um, consider it a thank-you gift for coming over.”

“It is my understanding that for one to receive a gift, it must be a holiday or repayment for a preformed favor,” Castiel tells Dean as he continues to examine the phone, lifting it in the light and identifying his reflection in the darkened, small screen. “It was a pleasurable experience, to meet your mother and I anticipate that I shall meet your father when he returns from his job?”

That was part of the dinner’s conversation, the whereabouts of John Winchester. According to Mary, since Sam was born, their finances required more pay than working at the local auto shop could ever give. Currently John Winchester is working in an oil field in Alaska, and will be gone for the next few months. Upon being informed of this, Castiel wondered why he did not overhear a conversation, see a sign that John would be leaving.

The answer was once again sitting down next to Castiel on the bed, a little closer. Not only did the space between them shrink, but Dean’s hand placed itself upon Castiel’s shoulder and gave a lingering squeeze.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Dean answers, and Castiel almost forgot he even asked the question. “If you don’t think coming over for dinner deserves a thank-you, then how about an apology for the detention thing?”

“You need to stop blaming yourself for _my_ choices,” Castiel sighs, shaking his head. “I knew the consequences.”

“Christ, give me a break and just accept my gift Cas.” Dean drops his hand from his shoulder, fingertips brushing down his shoulder blade and back as it goes. “I’ll teach you how to use it, if you bring it to lunch tomorrow.”

As he stores away the cell phone in its box, Castiel smiles. “Thank you, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

It's actually bordering on ridiculous how much Castiel struggles the not-at-all-fine art of 'texting'.

It takes a solid week for Castiel to learn how to properly turn on the device without unintentionally turning it back off. After that, Dean teaches him to navigate to several different screens, and even guides Castiel to program Dean’s phone number in his contact list.

Castiel has had the cell phone approximately two weeks when he is at lunch at the phone shrills an unrecognizable song. The phone is tucked in the pocket of his slacks and Castiel nearly falls from his seat when the song blares; he fumbles to retrieve it, the words numbly reaching his ears and he recognizes the music immediately.

_Ramble on!_

_And now’s the time, the time is now_

_To sing my song_

_I’m going ‘round the world, I gotta find my girl_

_On my way!_

_I’ve been this way ten years to the way_

_Ramble on!_

Sam laughs, and Castiel cannot discern if he’s laughing at the song—it’s Dean’s favorite ; he only knows this because he forced Castiel to listen to the tape exactly twenty-five times in the Impala—or at the complete lack of grace Castiel possesses as he attempts to answer it.

Castiel flips it open and presses it to his ear, hesitating as he mutters, “Hello?” But then he realizes he’s holding the phone upside down and quickly adjusts, repeating his greeting.

_“What’s the word, Cas?”_

“A shortened form of my name,” Castiel responds dully.

_“Don’t be a smartass.”_ Dean sounds amused. _“Just seein’ if you’d be able to pick up the phone when I call.”_

“It’s senseless though, Dean, because you assisted me in ordering pizza last night. I know how to operate a phone.”

_“Then why’d ya fumble around with it like a fish trying to find which side you talk into?”_ Dean counters.

Castiel’s eyes widen. “How did you know that?”

The small burst of anxiety is hushed by Dean’s chuckling through the line. _“Look behind you, dude.”_ And Castiel does, eyes looking over the multitude of students in the cafeteria. At the far end, Dean leans against the doorframe leading from the East Wing of the school into the lunchroom. He smirks and waves, cradling his phone between his ear and shoulder.

Sam laughs beside Castiel as he follows to where he’s looking, and Dean abruptly hangs up as he jogs to their table.

Dean claps Castiel on his shoulder fondly. “Good job, though, Cas. I know you are technologically stupid—”

“I’m not stupid,” Castiel interjects shortly. “I am—” _A three millennia old being with a finite but extensive knowledge of the universe._ Frustration immediately churns in his stomach as Castiel averts his eyes. “I am not stupid,” he settles on, dejected.

Dean touches his shoulder—and it is growing increasingly distracting when he does that, to Castiel’s dismay—and frowns. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You are so damn smart I feel like a first grader sometimes.”

“You act like one sometimes, too,” Sam adds under his breath.

“Shut up, Sam.” Dean returns his attention to Castiel. “What I mean is, I’m kinda proud of you. Really proud that I’m actually capable of teaching someone how to do something, but mostly proud to have such an easy student.” He smiles brightly. “Hey— _proud_ I am, young Skywalker!”

“I must point out that is awkward phrasing; and who is Skywalker?” Castiel asks.

Dean blanches. “Dude, you’re coming over tonight, and you’re gonna watch Star Wars with me. I will _not_ let you graduate high school without being well-versed in Jedi-speak.”

“Which movie are you gonna start with?” Sam asks. “Phantom Menace?” Dean narrows his eyes and leans across the table to give Sam a firm smack across the back of his head. “Ow!”

“That better have hurt, because that’s a stupid ass idea.”

“I was just _thinking,_ you know, chronological order?”

Dean scoffs. “You know, Dad’s generation managed to understand just fine without those fucking prequels.” Dean turns to Castiel. “You get all the good plot twists this way—and you get to meet Han Solo faster. He’s my idol.”

“Man crush,” Sam amends, making Castiel’s eyebrows raise in surprise as he looks to Dean.

Under his gaze, Dean blushes, but sustains a hard glare at his brother. “I will show mom your porn stash.”

“And I’ll tell her who bought it for me.” Sam smiles deviously and rises from the table with his tray. “I’ll see you in Philosophy, Cas. You two plan your date.”

“I’m gonna—” Dean begins as Sam takes off at a hurried pace. “—kill him,” Dean sighed.

“That would be unwise, even more so now that you have confided your intent to me,” Castiel mumbles. “It is my understanding that one who commits a crime of passion will receive a lesser sentence.”

Dean is trying to sustain a serious frown, but there is a flicker of a genuine smile on the corners of his eyes. “So I guess the question here is pretty simple, Cas.” His lower lip slides between his teeth, and Dean bites down on it as he give Castiel a heated stare. “Can you keep a secret?”

For unexplainable reasons, the deep murmur of Dean’s voice makes him tremble. Castiel swallows, feeling his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he looks back at Dean, who after a few shocked blinks of his eyes, is looking away.

“Yes,” says Castiel. “I’ll keep all your secrets.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel shows up on the Winchester’s doorstep around eight o’clock that night and knocks on the door. Mary answers and smiles, leaning on the door frame as she tilts her head.

“Hello, Cas, Dean tells me you two have a movie marathon planned?” She motions him inside with a gesticulation of her arm.

“Yes,” Castiel deadpans and glances to her, feeling uncomfortable under her intense stare. To say the least, Castiel’s visits over the past two weeks had been scrutinized a great deal. To this point, he has dodged each carefully worded question meant to reveal Castiel’s dishonest, and he has presented himself as human as possible. Dean grows angry with Mary at times, sensing the latent hostility underneath her sweet and curious words. “According to Dean I share many traits with one character called Three-C-P-Oh...” he trails off. “Odd name.”

Mary snorts and shakes her head. “Smack him on the head for me, Cas. Tell him to mind his manners.”

Castiel tilts his head, confused, but is robbed the chance of asking for clarification when Dean bounds down the hall. He’s dressed in his casual wear, jeans and a loose graphic tshirt. A smiles spreads across his mouth when he sees Castiel, which he returns with a smirk.

“What about my manners?” he asks as he stands next to Castiel.

“Oh, just how awful they are,” Mary says teasingly. “Are you watching Phantom Menace?”

“ _No!”_ Dean exclaims, annoyed. “Jesus, Sam is your male carbon copy. We’re doing this the right way—A New Hope, Return of the Jedi, and then Empire Strikes Back. That’s the way God intended it.”

“God is indifferent to film succession,” Castiel comments.

Dean rolls his eyes. “And I hate prequels, so let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

That is an odd expression, Castiel thinks, but shrugs as he follows Dean into the living room. The TV is already on and the opening credits are paused. Castiel inhales the odor of popcorn as he falls next to Dean, who was taking up half of the small couch already. Castiel wishes he could be ambivalent to the proximity of their bodies, but he is well aware of the slightest bit of heat radiating from Dean’s thigh into his own. Dean’s arm is behind the couch, cushions, but is dangerously close to Castiel’s head. Idly, he wonders what it would be like if Dean allowed Castiel to support his neck with it, but throws it away quickly. It’s a dangerous thought.

The first movie proceeds, and Castiel quickly becomes fascinated with the otherworldly plot. He asks Dean questions, which he answers in a whisper s if they might disrupt someone else if they spoke too loud. Occasionally Dean would answer his questions with, “just watch” and Castiel would, only to find his questions answered in a flurry of explosions and plot twists.

Between the second and third movie, they take a small break to gather more food from the kitchen. Dean directs Castiel to situate himself at the countertop while Dean prepares a snack in the microwave. Once the microwave is running, Dean stretches his arms above his and releases a yawn. Though Castiel does not experience exhaustion, he cannot help but mimic the action—perhaps it’s just a latent human reflex.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna pass out before the big finale?”

Castiel shakes his head shortly. “You yawned first.”

“I yawn _all_ the time,” Dean amends. “Perpetually lazy—but yeah, you better stay awake for the end of Empire Strikes Back. Darth Vader—man, you’ll see.”

Castiel chuckles and nods. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

“Good. I hate watching movies with Sam. He’s such a _girl—_ falls asleep and then drools on the couch cushions like a fucking dog.” The microwave blares out shrilly, causing Dean to quickly turn to silence it and pull the food from inside. It’s a small pizza, Castiel notices, and it smells... _really good._ Mary had made a similar microwavable pizza just last week for dinner.

“Where is Sam?” Castiel asks.

“He’s at the movies with Ruby, or something, and then they were going to study,” Dean mumbles back, rolling his eyes as he starts to cut the pizza into large slices. “Who studies on dates? That’s gotta be the most boring relationship ever.”

A frown forms on Castiel’s lips. “We study biology frequently,” he points out. “I do not find it boring.”

Dean freezes, the knife stilling in his hand as he slowly moves his eyes to Castiel. “Are we dating, Cas?”

_Oh,_ Castiel’s mind begins to sputter. Dean is referring to _study dates_ being boring, not studying in general. He finds himself sorting through his memory for some proper definition of dating. It typically has romantic connotations, which Castiel has tried _so_ very hard to prevent from blossoming despite the curious human affection which blossoms when he sees Dean or hears his voice.

“No.”

Dean raises his chin, eyes still on Castiel with an indiscernible expression. He nods once solemnly and slides a paper plate with a slice of pizza on it toward Castiel and then walks from the kitchen.

He can’t help but feel as if it was the wrong answer.

 

* * *

 

Dean was correct in saying that the final movie was the best. Even so, his attention is evenly divided between the TV and Dean, who has seemed out of sorts ever since the movie began. He sits on the far left side of the couch, an elbow propped on the armrest as he cradles his face. He no longer murmurs Han Solo's lines from memory, nor does he laugh at the parts where there seems to be comedic value.

Despite his earlier excitement, Dean seems tired and painfully thoughtful. Castiel knows it is his doing but has no idea exactly what he said. He and Dean are not dating, clearly. Dating involved courting of some sort, and Dean does not court him...or does he? How does one even court? Literature across the ages depicts extraordinary gestures and kissing, deep declarations and touching.

Of course Dean was not some hero from Romantic or Classical literature— _plus_ it is the 21st century.

Perhaps Castiel should take into account the romanticism portrayed in the very movie they watch. Whoever directed the films made the chemistry between Han Solo and Princess Leia blatantly obvious, from the dramatic camera angles to the inflated scripting. It wasn’t transparent, but Castiel was not completely inept to see the romance spindling between them. The roots of their relationship consisted of stolen glances and banter that teetered on the edge of genuine and teasing. Castiel cannot deny that his and Dean’s relationship is quite similar in that respect. It’s normal for Castiel to stare, because he is (or at least he _used_ to be) indifferent to the awkwardness most humans experience due to extended eye contact. However, Dean staring at him is a different story. And Castiel _tries_ not to see that there is intense heat behind each flake of green, and there is always some sort of subtle confession hanging on his lips. The nature of those unspoken words is what Castiel is unsure about.

The movie continues, and Castiel feels an uncomfortable, sympathetic twist in his chest when Han Solo is captured and is about to be stored in what they call a hibernation chamber. If Castiel is not already confused by the sickness he feels in his gut, Princess Leia confesses her love to Han Solo, to which he responds with a strong and brave, “I know.”

He does not know why, but he feels a strong instinct to turn to Dean, to gauge his reaction, seek an explanation for how pained this _movie_ was making him feel. It’s fiction, yet he feels a strange attachment like his existence hinges on whether love will conquer each force that keeps them apart—status, war, circumstance.

It’s a pang of sympathy.

Dean is asleep now, though, which gives Castiel a throbbing sense of loneliness as he returns his attention to the movie. Except now he does not want to watch it, not when he feels trapped by the irrationally large swell of emotions that make his heart race.

He thinks it might be wise to leave, to go to Anael for some advice. He does not know if she will be in their regular meeting place, not when she is so dedicated to hunting down Gabriel whilst Castiel protects the brothers. He is not even doing a good job at _that—_ he watches movie and eats food with Dean, not even giving a second thought to whether Sam is safe or not. And it’s not purposeful; the elder Winchester brother presently consumes his mind to a dangerous extent.

If Anael cannot be a source of comfort, then who can? Instinctively, his inner thoughts reached for memories of Dean’s smile, the touch of Dean’s hand on his shoulder as if it would keep him afloat above the flood of emotion. But he is asleep.

Castiel shifts and looks to his side again. A brief touch to Dean’s mind reveals that he is dreaming, deep enough that Castiel could walk in them if he were careful not to stir his consciousness. The idea is innocent enough—Castiel _has_ walked through Dean’s dreams before, however briefly and to ensure the angels had not found him yet—but if Castiel is honest, it has greater and riskier connotations that before. He considers the idea because he selfishly wants to medicate himself with Dean, whose smile and laughter are beyond addictive.

But his chest is so _tight._

Caution seems a little too overdue when it comes to Dean Winchester, so Castiel opts to simply ‘throw it to the wind’ as they say.

First he turns off the TV, hoping silence will keep Dean asleep long enough for Castiel to enter his dreams.

Then, he extends himself, and it’s like stretching unused muscles. Castiel knows he grows weaker the more he exerts himself, but it’s terrifying nonetheless to have to work to perform a task as simple as dream walking. Eventually, he breaches Dean’s conscious mind and feels the flurry of nonsensical thoughts before drawing into his unconscious.

The human mind is beautiful, especially when one looks through the lens his or her own mind crafts. Castiel does just this, refracting meaningless patterns and bright emotions through the lens and manifesting an image, a place—a world.

Dean’s dream is simple and unfamiliar. It’s in an old field with freshly cut, auburn grass that reminds Castiel of autumn. Hues of gold and yellow reflect off the dewy tips, making the light fog at his feet glisten with unnaturally warm light. He takes a few steps as he settles into this dream, feeling each sensation that Dean’s subconscious creates for this imaginary place—or is a memory? Though it’s not Castiel’s dream, there is a sense of familiarity in the air. Either Dean has been to this field or he has simply dreamed of it before—or both, maybe.

He turns around, finding himself facing a bright horizon with the sun resting on the edge of the field. There, just a shadow under the bright rays, is Dean. Castiel approaches, walking faster than necessary, and finding himself filled with less sadness and more anticipation.

Once he is within several meters of Dean, Castiel notices that he’s dressed in his soccer uniform. He’s seen Dean wearing it upon occasion, when he arrives at Dean’s house just as he is returning from his practice. He kicks the ball casually between his feet, watching the ball carefully as he rolls the tip of his cleat beneath it, which propels the ball into the sweep of the top of his foot. Then, as a carefully practiced trick, he bounces the ball on his foot, then switches it to the other, before kicking it just high enough that it lands on the curve of his neck. Dean balances it there for a steady moment, concentrating, and then allows the ball to roll down his spine, thigh, and then _somehow_ he is able to catch the ball in the crook of his leg and hold it there for a few seconds before he finally lets the ball fall to the ground.

It’s when Dean’s concentration is broken that he sees Castiel. His face is spontaneously bright—unlike Castiel has ever seen it. He immediately jogs over to Castiel, kicking the ball along the way, and stops only a meter short of crushing into him.

“Hi,” Dean breathes, his smile becoming even wider somehow.

Castiel skips a beat. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s tongue darts out, dampening his lower lip as his eyes flutter across Castiel’s features. “You made it, Cas. I…” He takes a step closer—and he is _very_ close now, and Castiel can feel Dean’s phantom breath fluttering across his lips. “I’m glad you made it.”

Castiel is far too aware of the meaning of Dean’s increasingly close proximity and he makes certain that the space between them doesn’t close completely by taking a quick step backward. His eyes are wide as he watches Dean, searching his expression for some kind of explanation of his sudden—his sudden _advancement._

Only amusement fills his features as he chuckles, squinting at Castiel with the slightest hint of confusion. “What’s the matter?” Thoughtfully he raises a hand in front of his face and lets out a few puffs of air against his palm. “My breath doesn’t smell bad, does it?”

“No,” Castiel says quietly. “I do not feel like…kissing.” The last word is barely audible. Dean smirks and instead raises his hand, capturing Castiel by the jaw. He suddenly feels outrageously vulnerable as Dean rubs circles into Castiel’s jaw with his thumb, smiling lazily at him as he licks his lips again.

“Since when?” He presses in closer once again, and the combination of Dean’s touch making Castiel’s reflexes dull and them simply being _too close_ keeps Castiel from pulling away once again. However, Dean’s lips do not press against his own like he feared, but against the center of his forehead.

Based on the shudder that goes through Castiel’s body, the kiss might as well have been against his lips.

After that, Dean simply pulls Castiel into a hug, propping his chin on Castiel’s shoulder. “You’re weirdly adorable Cas, I hope you know what that does to me.”

Castiel doesn’t, so he opts not to respond. He must be rational about this—play along with whatever Dean’s subconscious wishes to play out. Otherwise, if Castiel’s presences seem out of the ordinary, he could wake up. And who knows if Dean’s mind will sew together the scattered mystery that is Castiel and Dean will realize that he is not even human.

“What are you doing here, Dean?” Castiel murmurs hesitantly, finding that his mouth is actually brushing Dean’s ear. He stammers and pushes Dean back softly, hoping that the measure to separate them won’t rouse his subconscious.

Dean rolls his eyes. “You remembered to come, but you forgot why we’re here?” Castiel nods, playing along. Subsequently, Dean rolls his soccer ball onto his ankle and then snaps his leg sideways, bouncing the ball up to his waiting hands. “Soccer lessons!”

“Oh, yes, I remember now,” Castiel says evenly and instinctively catches the ball when Dean throws it to him. He rolls it in his hands, unaccustomed to the sensation of the plastic beneath him. Although it’s a dream, the texture must be perfectly replicated because even Castiel believes he has experienced the sensation before, even though he has not. In some ways, he is melded with Dean’s mind. That particular thought should not affect Castiel at all but he finds it slightly exhilarating.

Dean probes the space between them silently before speaking. “You gotta drop the ball, Cas. Soccer is played with feet.”

“Right.”

Castiel lets it fall to the ground and he tentatively taps it with the toe of his shoe.

“You can kick it like that, but it’s harder for armatures,” Dean comments, striding forward so that he is no longer standing in front of Castiel, but beside him. Castiel jumps when Dean presses a hand to his hip, gently pushing him so that Dean is square behind the ball. “You’d be surprised how much easier it is to control the ball when you kick with the side of your foot.”

Illustrating his point, he takes a gallant stride and smashes the side of his foot, slightly angling the stance so that the ball sinks into the arch of his shoe. The ball glides through the air, traveling perhaps a dozen meters, before sinking back into the grass. Dean turns to Castiel, looking overly smug. “Impressed?”

“Very,” Castiel answers.

“Your turn then.” Dean suddenly has another soccer ball in his hands and tosses it to the ground, to Castiel’s feet. “Now, I’m going to go over there—” Dean points over his shoulder with his thumb. “—and you’re gonna pass me the ball.”

Castiel nods in understanding, focusing on the ball at his feet. Once Dean comes to a stop near where he kicked the first ball, Castiel angles his body just as Dean had, and then sidesteps, sloppily so, as his foot awkwardly crushes into the ball. It punts straight up into the air, but lands actually quite close to Dean. He cheers and picks up the ball, coming back toward Castiel with the most vivid grin that had graced Dean’s dream yet.

Before Castiel can protest, Dean’s broad hands are cradling his face and he’s only a breath away.

“You did so good,” Dean says, voice breaking as his smile falters into a pure expression of wonderment. “Cas—I’m so proud of you.”

It’s gentle blow to his chest, as if his heart was suddenly struck by lightning, when Castiel hears these words. It is a reminder that this dream is in fact Dean’s subconscious—he said those precise words, with his corporal lips, to Castiel.

“Thank you Dean…” Castiel says quietly, voice dropping into a tenor that even he did not know existed. He is petrified, because this is Dean’s mind. Dean is touching him as Castiel longs to be touched, and it’s quite real. But Dean will most likely not remember all of this; like many dreams, it will be compartmentalized and stored away for later dreams.

Dean is about to try to kiss him again, as far as Castiel can tell, but Dean’s fingers are skimming up his jaw and his fingers softly rustle at the hair falling down Castiel’s face. As one hand continues to cradle his jaw, the other falls to the back of Castiel’s neck, lifting his chin.

“—Dean!” Castiel manages, startling Dean and stopping the descent of his lips. “Wha…Whatever happened to ‘personal space’?”

“Personal space,” Dean repeats in a deadpan, quite thoughtful now, but he does not pull away. “Why would I ever agree to having personal space when I’m with my smokin’ hot boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?” Castiel’s tongue is swollen with words that he cannot say; protest he cannot vocalize because this is Dean’s dream. He is at risk of exposing himself to Dean’s subconscious, that Castiel is an intruder behind the walls of Dean’s mind. He merely swallows his shock and closes his eyes. “Yes, I suppose personal space is unnecessary.”

“You’re acting so weird today…” Dean muses, running his thumb up Castiel’s cheek. “And warm, mhm.” He smiles. “Maybe you’re sick.”,

At Dean’s thought, Castiel suddenly feels a tickle in his throat. It’s his subconscious doing its work, manifesting Dean’s suspicion into illness. Castiel clings to this rope Dean’s mind has thrown and nods.

“I do feel ill,” he whispers back.

Dean frowns, “I don’t want you to play sick. Let’s just sit, ‘kay?” Before Castiel can reply, Dean is tugging them both into the ground. Dean lays down first, and wordlessly directs Castiel to lay his head on Dean’s stomach. He tries to mask his discomfort, his uncertainty with the position, but Dean is chuckling and pulling him down.

It is not new knowledge that Dean is soft. All humans are particularly soft, as none can possess a perfectly toned body. But Castiel did not expect Dean’s lower abdomen to be plush, considering the rest of him is athletically sculpted. Not that Castiel has paid the utmost attention.

Some attention, he admits half heartedly.

Against his own volition, Castiel hums into the heated cushion as Dean weaves his fingers into Castiel’s hair—

_“Dean!”_

The break of their connection is instantaneous. Both Dean and Castiel abruptly jump at the sound of Sam’s voice exploding into the living room. Castiel feels a wave of dizziness as he turns, seeing Sam hovering at the mouth of the door.

“Oh. Hey guys.” Sam winces. “Sorry I woke you up.”

Castiel was not asleep, but he tells Sam it is all right. Only then does he turn to see Dean squinting into the bright light first to Sam, then to Castiel. His eyes go wide for a moment, confused and scared, before he blinks and wipes all expression besides annoyance away.

“Yeah, we were just watching movies,” Dean replies. He glances to the TV. “But I don’t remember setting the sleep timer…”

“I turned it off,” Castiel provides.

“Because the movie ended?”

“No, because you fell asleep.”

Dean grimaces and shakes his head. “No, dude, if I fall asleep during a movie—you _wake my ass up!”_

Castiel inches back and nods. “Noted.”

“Oh my God, who’s the girl now?” Sam injects, which earns a glare from Castiel and a ‘shut up Sam’ from Dean. “Sorry—I’m just gonna go upstairs, go to bed.”

Once Sam is gone, footsteps softly trailing above them, Dean sighs heavily and falls back into the couch. He is tired, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Castiel wants to touch them, but not while he’s awake. Maybe he should never touch them again, since he realizes that it’s not only those thoughts he desires to brush over.

“You wanna stay the night?” Dean suddenly asks. “I got a blow up mattress in my closet. Mom won’t mind.”

Castiel plans on being with Dean throughout the night, visible or not, so he nods. “I would appreciate that.”

“You need to call your parents?”

“They won’t care.”

Dean looks to his side, to Castiel, and considers his answer. He seems skeptical, for reasons unknown, and nods. “I care, just so you know,” he murmurs.

To that Castiel only replies with a smile, because after seeing a glimpse of Dean’s dreams, he is certain there are a million different meanings behind those words. And part of him wishes he could reciprocate, but there is no matching the extent of which Castiel cares for Dean.

 


	5. Pagans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you not my friend anymore?”
> 
> Dean seems to be surprised by the question, and he finally gives Castiel more attention than a grimace or an eye roll. “Yeah—Cas, of course we’re friends,” he murmurs as he rolls his tense shoulders. They loosen almost as quickly as his features. “Why would you think that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I am really happy I was able to make my Friday deadline for this update as I have felt under the weather today. For this reason I didn't thoroughly edit this chapter, so apologies for any mistakes on my part.
> 
> Thanks AGAIN to all the people who have given feedback for this fic, here and on my [Tumblr](http://purifiedean.tumblr.com). It means THE FREAKING WORLD.
> 
> A few notes for readers:  
> -Please check out "[An Angel's Name](http://purifiedean.tumblr.com/post/90015896522/epstien-a-playlist-for-katies-beautiful-fic)," which is a playlist that my friend [Kenzie](http://epstien.tumblr.com) made for Stairway to Heaven. Thank you Kenz!  
> -Track updates on the fic and extra stuff like art and playlists on Tumblr: "sth fic" is the tag  
> -If you would like to make anything for the fic, anything at all, you can tag it "sth fic" or "flannelcastiel" or "purifiedean". I check all of those!  
> -Fanart below is also by [Kenzie](http://epstien.tumblr.com).

“This is boring,” Dean complains as he taps the tip of his pen against his upper lip. Castiel sighs patiently

Mentally cataloguing this image, Dean slouched in his seat and his dress shirt rumpled, Castiel studies Dean from the corner of his eye. Many of the students seem to share his sentiments, as the heat inside the school seems to be malfunctioning. It is very hot despite the cool weather outside, Castiel admits, which is why Dean has discarded his sweater vest and opts to use it as a pillow for his elbow.

“Mr. Samson was kind enough to offer a lab experiment instead of a midterm,” Castiel reminds Dean, although he is indifferent to the method in which he was tested. Dean apparently loathed tests, to the point of sometimes leaning over to copy Castiel’s answers.

“Hmph.”

Dean must not truly intend to start a conversation now. He hasn’t properly spoken to Castiel all day, since the night he slept on Dean’s air mattress. It feels as though it’s been weeks since Dean has even _looked_ at him, but it has only been days.

Castiel tenses and looks back down the microscope lenses. It’s a plankton lab, and all they are required to do is describe the microorganisms behavior and then write a report. It’s simple enough and there is no reason that these minuscule creatures could make him angry.

Except Castiel _knows_ that Dean’s anger is misplaced.

It’s evident when Dean avoids eye contact and is sure to not let their knees accidentally brush under their table; there are no comforting touches of their shoulders, brushing of fingers when they reach for the same beakers at the same time. It’s all _awkward_ now (and Castiel finally understands the meaning of that word). It’s when things that have been simply habitual have become taboo.

Prior to this, Castiel has been content to be apathetic toward Dean’s mood swings. But now he’s uncomfortable with how… uncomfortable he feels. It’s a paradox that itches at even his highest level of thinking and there must be some way to amend all this. It would be easier if Castiel was aware of Dean’ woes, but he refuses to pry into Dean’s thoughts. Selfishly so; he fears what he will find there, considering the contents of Dean’s subconscious thoughts. His dreams.

“Dean, why are you not speaking to me?” Castiel asks. He sounds innocent enough, but he fidgets as he turns from the microscope to Dean.

Dean isn’t looking at him, but his eyes do widen, and his lower lip puckers outward. “I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?”

“You responding to my question is hardly communication,” Castiel bites out. “The last few days you’ve said more in your sleep than to me.”

“What are you doing watching me sleep?”

Castiel sighs; yes he watches Dean sleep nightly and has since the day he first met Dean—but that’s not what he is referring to. “No, I _listen_ to you drone on about pie as you drool on your Calculus binder.”

Dean’s lips turn downward. He does not reply.

“You are...” Castiel starts, his voice frayed and starting to get colder, but he stops the ice before it freezes over their conversation. It’s concerning, how much he needs Dean. He has never needed anyone beside himself. Yes, in his garrison, they all relied upon each other, but those strings that bound them together were out of necessity. He lived in Heaven without his garrison, only minding his orders and performing his duties.

He missed the bonds he shared with his garrison, but he was not crippled without them. In contrast, the bonds he shares with Dean and Sam are immeasurably more powerful despite the short length of time in which he has actually known them. And how strongly he’s attached to Dean—it’s powerful and magnetic, and if it weren’t for Castiel’s fear of becoming lost in the mess of human closeness, he’d gladly fall into the warmth that fills his chest even then. That same soft fire—like embers flicking from the pit of his grace—fills his words, which are also tinged with despair. “Are you not my friend anymore?”

Dean seems to be surprised by the question, and he finally gives Castiel more attention than a grimace or an eye roll. “Yeah—Cas, of course we’re friends,” he murmurs as he rolls his tense shoulders. They loosen almost as quickly as his features. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you are quickly beginning to ignore me, be short with me, just as you have done with your other friends.” It had been slow and steady, the way Dean began to distance his self from the crowd he associated with in the past. Castiel thought that perhaps it was because their first instinct was to ridicule Castiel before acting in a peculiar manner, and Dean did not like that. Then he came to conclusion that Dean severing relationships with those lower beings was inevitable and that he should not credit himself for Dean’s own character growth.

Nonetheless, the past few days have been achingly distant.

“Like… like Ace and the douche brigade?” Dean asks.

“Yes.”

“Why would I wanna stop being your friend?” Dean shifts in his stool. “You’re the best friend I ever had, man.”

That throws Castiel off, and he nearly loses his train of thought, because that confession—so full, yet brief—nearly derailed every word he has planned. “You have been incorrigibly rude as of late. In the hall you see me and you turn around, pretend that you did not. In class you ignore me, except to copy my answers or complain or ask me to borrow my eraser. And you can barely look at me at all, which indicates that I have done something to terminate our friendship. And since I cannot identify the stimuli, I see no other possibility; our friendship is coming to an end.”

Castiel is detached at this point. Analytical. He must be, because not only is he becoming an emotional being, he is _over_ emotional.

“Cas, I’m not pissed at you,” Dean breathes impatiently.“I’m going through some personal stuff, you know? I’m sorry you’re a casualty of that—I’ve been shitty to you, to Sam even, and that’s… not cool. I’m sorry.”

After considering this, Castiel looks to the desk, absentmindedly studying Dean’s hand as it clenches the edge. His knuckles are white, strained. His eyes look up to meet Dean’s. “I appreciate your honesty, but that is no excuse.” This all seems so juvenile, so human—he should not let himself grow accustomed to being a victim of a mood swing or one of Dean’s personal crisis. He leans closer, lowering his voice. “I deserve _respect_.”

Dean nods, seeming slightly on edge at the depth of Castiel’s reply. “I respect you Cas,” he says earnestly. “I…”

“Mr. Winchester, Mr. Novak—I am seriously reconsidering reassigning you new lab partners,” Mr Samson calls from his desk, a particularly poisonous amount of annoyance in his tone. “Or perhaps giving you the hundred-question multiple choice test I was going to give the class originally.”

Castiel sighs and looks to Mr. Samson, holding up his notebook. “That will not be necessary as I have already compiled all the data needed to write our report.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Castiel deadpans. “Would you like me to show you?”

Mr. Samson sighs. “That will not be necessary. Just lower your voices and keep working.”

Castiel nods and thanks the teacher, which causes Dean to chuckle, but its volume is exclusive to Castiel’s ears. “You’re amazing, Cas.”

His face warms, and there is no respite when a smile forms on Castiel’s lips. Its warm, too, and he has to hide his eyes so that he doesn’t feel Dean’s eyes on him. It’s what he asked for, Dean’s attention, but now that he has it, it’s infectiously… _too much._

 

* * *

 

Castiel’s supposed ability to amaze is not enough to keep Dean from parting after Biology, but this is simply because it’s their routine, not out of spite. He feels as though they have made amends. Whatever Dean is going through, he knows he must either talk to Castiel about it or not let it affect their relationship. It does not matter that Castiel plays the part of harmless, human teenager—he is _still_ an angel. Not as almighty as he once was, but an angel nonetheless.

It’s when a ringing grazes his thoughts that he is acutely reminded of this fact. It’s the same high-pitched sound each angel receives when another angel broadcast over the spectrum of sound waves that reach each living being’s ears at some point. It’s a means of communication, one that has become so foreign since his fall. Everything else becomes simple ambience—the clatter and murmur of noise in the hall as he changes classes—as Castiel listens. It cannot possibly be Heaven that speaks to him; he has long severed that connection so he cannot be tracked. The pitches change, moving up and down in jagged waves until he hears the message. It is Anael, and she is calling for him. Castiel goes immediately, unceremoniously.

The warehouse is dark as usual, and he finds Anael standing in the center floor with her eyes closed, facing away from him.

“Anael,” Castiel says, announcing his presence. She turns quickly to him, eyes wide and a smile stretching across her pink lips.

“I found him,” she says, breathless as she walks toward him at a quickened pace. She clasps his hands, pulls them to her chest and kisses his knuckles, excitement and affection pouring from her grin. “I cannot believe it, Castiel—I found Gabriel!”

He gazes up, stuttering for proper speech. “I—” He stops, his stunned expression turning to one of doubt. “How? Over a millennia all of Heaven looked for him, _Michael_ had it as his top priority for centuries.”

“I have been putting out calls,” she explains, trying to hush him. “Signals, like the one I sent you. Ones that Heaven cannot hear, but perhaps other angels might.”

“Still—”

“No,” Anael punctuates, dropping Castiel’s hands as her lips press together. “Allow me this. While you have been parading around with children for months, I have been searching and seeking and I finally have evidence that he’s alive. And, that he wants to be found.”

“After all this time…” Castiel murmurs. “Do you honestly believe he does not have an agenda of his own? He did not reply to your message because he’s generous.” He pauses. “What did he tell you?”

“I know that there are probably pretenses, if he is to keep his promise and assist us. And his message, if I translated the signals correctly, offers a location. He is going to meet us there.”

Castiel is a strategist. The message sounds wrought with manipulation the moment it reaches his ears. It does not matter that Gabriel is seemingly neutral, a possible ally even, because he is still an archangel. Anael is a strategist as well, but a hapless and desperate one who is clearly clinging to this threadbare plan. But she has done so much, done what Heaven has not in over a thousand years, and Castiel feels an innate urge to indulge her this. He wants to see her smile once more. It brings about a warmness in his chest, similar to when he sees Dean smile, but it’s closer to his throat than in his stomach.

He exhales. “Where?” He is coming with her, regardless of his strength.

She does not answer, but simply touches his shoulder with a firm hand, and they are flying.

 

* * *

 

Once their movement halts, Castiel turns his neck to absorb his surroundings. His reaction is a resounding, “Are you _kidding_ me?”

Anael frowns, and looks to him. “Why would I play with matters like— _oh._ ” She stops. “That was an expression.”

Castiel does not have time to mull over him being more fluent in human expressions than Anael before he’s rolling his eyes up. Lightning shakes the sky, creating white veins in the clouds as thunder pulses and vibrates the ground beneath their feet. Besides the storm above, blotting out the sun, which shone brightly in Kansas, the only true light came from the glowing sign above them, arched over a large building.

_Elysian Fields Hotel_ , it reads. To a human, the name might indicate that the hotel is some sort of exotic paradise. After all, Elysium has been splayed across historical records as being the Greek’s paradisiacal heaven—the _Fortunate Isle_ , the _Land of the Blessed_ —but the angels know better.

“You’ve brought us to the territory of the Pagans,” Castiel says, narrowing his eyes to Anael beside him. “One of their _hunting_ grounds.”

Her expression is indifferent, and she laughs. “Oh Castiel, you almost sound afraid.”

“Nonsense,” he murmurs indignantly. “I—I thought you said you were going to meet with Gabriel—an _angel_. Common knowledge is that the Pagans want nothing more than to skewer our Graces for the rest of eternity.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about, since your Grace is basically gone.”

Those words sting at Castiel’s pride so drops his narrowed eyes to the ground. He feels small, and he resents Anael for poking a hot iron at the raw weak spot. Castiel wonders if he could even survive independently outside this vessel—he does not know of an angel who could retain their true form without the Nucleus feeding them the strength to keep their Grace from spreading thinly across the universe.

He tries not to hope for more than surviving the apocalypse, but Castiel thinks that Raphael’s wrath might rival that of Michael’s or Lucifer’s if he should live. At this rate, no outcome seems to play out in his favor.

But it can turn out better for Sam and Dean, should he succeed.

Just as he is about to remind Anael of the matter at hand, she steps forward.

“I think Heaven’s problem with finding Gabriel was we they looking for an _angel_ ,” she says. “I tried a new approach. I looked for his _power._ And it just so happens that _Loki’s_ power is oddly derived from a different energy source than the other God’s. The Nucleus, I suspect.”

“ _Loki?_ ” Castiel asks, struck into silence as he stares at Anael.

“Gabriel departed and became a _Pagan._ He is a deviant in the eyes of Heaven. Maybe he won’t care about Heaven’s plans, as reciprocation.”

Then why would he even help them, Castiel wonders. They are clinging to the hopes of Gabriel feeling rebellious enough to oppose Michael, to challenge Lucifer. They tread dangerous waters because many angels know very little about Gabriel. Does he possess Raphael’s wrath? Michael’s loyalty? Lucifer’s arrogance?

He hopes they are not walking straight into an archangel’s trap.

The sky trembles once more and rain begins to fall. Anael takes his forearm and tugs, pulling him toward the hotel. Castiel resists immediately.

“I do not trust Gabriel enough to go… in _there_ ,” he said. “If anything, he’s working with the Pagans now. He is giving them two angels—Heaven’s most _desirable_ fugitives—on a silver platter, Anael.”

“It will be fine,” she promises. “Would your superior ever lead you into battle without a steadfast plan?”

The word _superior_ rang in his mind. He has _fallen._ She does not control him, does not dictate his will. Castiel has a taste of _free_ will; he is a soldier to a cause none other than his own. His mission is a renegade in every sense of the word.

Her once concrete authority also stings him somewhere in his heart, where he thought of himself and Anael as friends—brother and sisters. Equals. Her throwing about a dissolved chain of command to dictate his actions is a slap in the face. He now feels caged and forced into submission, when Anael twists his wrist a little tighter. It _hurts_ , and the pain is a reminder that which he has lost. Resentment fills his mouth as he grimaces and follows her.

“Good,” she praises him with a small smile. “Just follow my lead.”

They take shelter from the rain, entering the hotel lobby ceremoniously. Anael is pressing her hand into Castiel’s, weaving their fingers tightly together, and it surprises him as she pulls them forward the desk situated in the center of the lobby.

A small-boned man with prodding cheekbones and beady eyes glows as they approach, erecting his spine as small smiles forms on his lips.

“Welcome to Elysian Fields Hotel!” he greets with a sickening amount of enthusiasm. He subconsciously presses a hand down his chest, smoothing his navy colored dress shirt with a cloud-logo and _Elysian Fields_ embroidered on a small pocket.

“Good evening,” Castiel deadpans.

“Indeed!” The man’s eyes fall down to their bound hands and his smile becomes knowing. “Ah, _young_ love. Might you be newlyweds?”

“Yes,” Anael answers sweetly (uncharacteristically so) before Castiel can object. She squeezes his hand, silencing any further objection. This is her strategy, but Castiel cannot possibly look old enough to be married to her. Their vessels are several years apart in age. But the man is either too ignorant to know better or he is part of the trap and ignorance is part of his facade. 

Castiel tries not to appear suspicious, but he is more inclined to believe the latter.

The man attends to his computer for a few seconds and then looks back up with an even wider smile. “We are having a special on our honeymoon suite!” he announces excitedly, and then begins to rattle off prices that Castiel has no interest in. It’s Anael who retrieves the key while Castiel paces around the lobby. Paintings depict popular mythology, mostly Greek. There are a few sculptures displayed on decorative pillars that seem to be of Hindu, African, and Norse origin. Of all the things Castiel has admired, it is the mythology surrounding the Pagans. Even though they are notoriously violent and petty, they have always supplied humanity with great stories and equally great artistic depictions of those stories. For instance, Elysium. Elysium, however, is not an original idea, but for a hotel to be its namesake indicates that this is the Greek gods’ domain. Objects and art honoring _other_ Gods suggests… homage.

This is not just a hunting ground. This hotel must be a convening point for _all_ Pagan gods.

Castiel is careful to internalize his realization and dare not reveal his worry as he stares upon one painting of Zeus throwing lightning from the heavens. He can still hear and feel the roll of thunder outside, and the paint of Zeus’ lightning rods seems to erupt. It might be mythical, or Castiel’s recently overactive imagination playing tricks. These places, like Elysian Fields, are built to alter reality, to cause humans to see and feel what isn’t true. It’s part of the game, and his vulnerable state is making him a pawn. A target.

He cannot help but jump when Anael takes his elbow. “It’s me, Castiel. Come,” she says, and Castiel feels a hot rush of bitterness that he follows her direction with no resistance.

Once inside the roof, Anael retrieves her dagger from her jeans—it had been tucked in the waistband, concealed by her flannel shirt—and presses it to her wrist and cuts. She uses the blood toward the door, and Castiel recognizes the Enochian writing as meaning _silence_. She is preventing any god from eavesdropping. It is then that Castiel shares his theory about this place being a meeting center for the Pagans and she agrees.

“The man in the lobby seems a weak enough god—perhaps we can interrogate him—”

“He was a god?” Castiel asks, eyebrows pinching. He did not sense anything god-like about the small man, not as he should have. Anael would not lie about this, and a stream of panic comes over him as he realizes he…he can’t _tell_ who is a god and who’s human anymore.

That is _dangerous—_ what if he cannot tell the difference between an angel and a human either?

“Castiel,” Anael sighs, sympathy entering her expression. They both sit down on the edge of the bed and she is touching his cheek, stroking it in that way which always has and always will comfort him. “Your power…it grows dim.” Her lips turn down. “We must talk about this… you will never be powerful as you once were. You are vulnerable.”

Castiel’s eyes burn. “I _know._ I do not need your pity or a reminder. I was aware of the consequences—”

“I don’t think you were,” she snaps, angry and holding his face rather than cupping it. She forces their eyes not to leave one another’s. “You want to save Earth, but you will destroy yourself in the process.”

“Then so be it,” he breathes, and she gasps in response.

“No! I will not assist you in this…this _suicide!_ ”

Castiel’s stomach drops. “Have you no faith? You have… you were not like this when you first fell,” he says firmly. “What happened to wanting to be human, but being too much of a coward to even attempt it?”

She moves back, but does not snap at him as he did at her. “I want that. Still. But not at the cost of my most brilliant soldier,” she says, and Castiel flinches at the description, which causes her to amend quickly, “my most precious brother.”

The amendment does not soothe him. “Apparently I wrongly assumed that your priorities are in order.” Castiel pushes away and stands up, taking a seat at a desk chair on the opposite side of the room. He does not look at her, but closes his eyes instead. He imagines a paradise instead, finds his thoughts in a bright open field stained with the colors of autumn and green eyes piercing from nowhere into him. “I am…my life is adequate payment for peace, and the lives and freedom of two innocent humans. My friends.”

“Castiel…”

“I am meditating now; do not speak to me,” he mutters. “You should focus on contacting Gabriel so we can leave here as soon as possible. This place reeks of magic and foul plans. I am all too vulnerable, aren’t I?”

Anael does not respond, which puts Castiel at ease. His most apparent thoughts, at least. His subconscious still churns, wonders, and… dreams.

* * *

 

 

He truly _dreams_.

It’s a quick realization before a vivid pain of claws easing into his arms pull him from the dark depths of his own mind. It _burns,_ whatever his clasping him, and quickly sliding him between the spaces of time itself. Humans call it teleportation, but it is simply becoming energy and flowing with an immeasurable speed between the cracks of the seconds previous and the seconds to come.

Then Castiel’s eyes open suddenly, blinding white tearing through his vision. He thrashes automatically, his body already sensing captivation. As he becomes aware, Castiel is being tied to a chair while a blade is simultaneously carving symbols into his arms. He can feel his Grace dimming like a smothered candle. Whatever is being carved into him is binding his powers. He looks around, frantic, and his eyes are staring into thin ones, narrowed and critical as he tucks away his blade. Castiel catches a glimpse at its handle, which bears ancient Chinese symbols carved into jade.

“Is he bound, Zao?” another asks.

“Yes,” the one with the jade dagger says gruffly. “He can do nothing. Are you sure he’s an angel, though? Reeks of humanity.”

They are gods, Castiel registers quick enough to exhale a curse. Grace or no grace, he was created with an unparalleled need to do his duty and he _will_ kill them if he must—

“Castiel!” The voice calling his name is Anael’s, and it’s frantic. He turns his head, seeing her tied in a chair as well. Blood drips from her arms, sigils glowing bright with her considerably more powerful Grace leaking out, because she is bound and carved just as he is.

“Anael!”

“Both of you—silence!”

The woman who stands before both of them waves away the two gods fidgeting with Castiel’s bindings. She looks at Castiel for a long moment, then gives the same reproachful glare to Anael. Her skin is olive-colored, her hair black and hanging down her shoulders. She exudes brilliant terror, as her eyes flare toward the angels.

“Calm, Kali.” A finely suited man with pale skin and thin, delicate features comes behind her and lays a hand on her shoulder. Immediately she seems deflated, quieted, and rolls away from his touch.

“Don’t do that Baldur,” she snaps, glaring at his touch for a moment. When he touches her again, she doesn’t move away from the touch, but she turns her frown toward Castiel.

Baldur—Castiel recognizes the name. The Norse god of wisdom. Knowing this could be important—out of the Pagans, a god of wisdom might be the most reasonable.

“Apologies,” he tells her in a hushed voice, his hand sliding down her shoulder, her arm, as he steps forward. “I just want to be a little more polite towards our guests.”

“Guests?” Kali exclaims, lips twitching. “They are surely _spies_.” Flames flicker at her fingertips, climb up her arms.

Anael gasps and fidgets, but Castiel is in awe of how easily the fire flows up her skin, not searing the flesh or eliciting pain. Of course—she is the Hindu goddess of mayhem—destruction.

“We are not killing them, Kali,” Buldur sighs.

“Why not?” she demands, flames taking a deep blue hue.

“Because.” He steps toward Anael, his eyes curious and predatory. He touches her cheek and tilts her chin upward, and Castiel lets a growl rumble in his chest. Baldur takes note of this of this and merely chuckles. “They are of _value._ ”

The one with the jade dagger guffaws at the assertion. “How could two angels possibly be valuable to me—” His lips curl into a smile. “Unless you intend me to incorporate them into our… feast.” Castiel quickly draws the conclusion that the god with the dagger is actually Zao Shen. Perfect; not only are they going to die, but be cooked—most likely alive—by the Chinese Kitchen god.

Kali’s finger stabs at Anael. “The smell of betrayal is strong on her—drinking her blood would be preferable. Plus, she’ll last longer than the poor excuse for an angel.”

Castiel really wanted the Pagans to _stop_ talking of his angelic nature as if he weren’t present.

“You smell traitor because _these_ are the two angels who rebelled,” Baldur says.

Kali tilts her head. She is now looking at Castiel, staring into him as if she can read the enochian carved into his skull, which binds his Grace’s consciousness to the brain of the vessel. “Is that so?”

“It must be them, if my reports are correct,” Baldur nods. “We want to halt this war, don’t we?” The Pagans all around nod and murmur in affirmation. “We have to lovely bargaining chips, here. Two angels who betrayed their Heaven and their precious God—”

“We act on God’s will,” Castiel interjects, and for the first time Baldur’s face curls with anger. A calm anger, a reproach, and he steps toward Castiel. He raises his fist, and Castiel thinks that he’s about to be stricken, but Baldur snaps his fingers instead. The binds on his wrists snap and he’s free, but Castiel does not rise from the chair.

“And what does God will?” Baldur asks. “Does he beckon you, from wherever he hides, to rise from this chair?”

Castiel stares and doesn’t respond.

“Or, does he tell you to blink? To breathe? There is no design, especially none that your _God_ created!” Baldur exclaims. “What a travesty; we—” He motions his hand around the room. “—and many others have existed much longer. We predate your Heaven, your Hell, and the humans for which you fell to save. We are _above_ your God—and you, _angel_ , are as much a maggot as any human.”

There is a hammering in his chest, and Castiel realizes it’s his heart. He is afraid, because he cannot fight them. He is powerless and Anael is bound. His only hope now would be to escape… or reason. Baldur _is_ the god of wisdom. Castiel inhales a steady breath, making sure his voice is empty and even when he opens his lips.

“I respect you, and I regret that the will of my Creator displaced you.” He eyes all of the God’s and bows his chin. “I have come to realize that… that God’s will is not to follow him blindly. I fell because…because he had _one_ commandment that made complete sense. Preserve that which you call maggots—humanity.” Baldur is attentive, amused even, and does not interrupt. “There is no design. There is life and death, everything in between relies on factors that are created and altered from the beginning of time. The only constant is free will—that’s what God gave humans.”

“But not angels,” Baldur points out.

The comment makes Castiel’s thoughts stumble, his brows pinching. “God…we were delegated a task,” he begins slowly. “To protect that which He created. To do so, we must immerse ourselves— _empathize_. God commanded us to love humans, and I believe that is because he wanted us to... become them.”

If Castiel heard those precise words muttered four months ago, he would have proclaimed them heresy and _ridiculous._

“What purpose do you think that would serve?” Baldur muses, stroking a hand thoughtfully at his cheek. “Why would your God create a powerful, nearly untouchable being only for it to decline and descend to this.”

“Humility,” Castiel answers quietly. “You Pagans know the trouble hubris causes; if an angel becomes a human, then one could assume that the angel has reached some sort state of modesty.”

“Fascinating,” Baldur says, eyes flickering to Kali. “An enlightened angel? Who knew.”

She rolls her eyes. “It does not change anything.”

Baldur sighs and nods. “Very true.”

“What doesn’t change?” Anael demands, thrashing forward against her binds.

“That we’re going to use you two as leverage,” Kali says lowly. “The angels think they can wreck this world? They are wrong. That is my purpose and my purpose alone and I _loathe_ sharing.” The flames on her finger grow so large they lick at her shoes.

“Heaven doesn’t care of our fate—you can’t hold us hostages if we’re traitors,” Castiel tells them.

“Oh, but they do care of your fate,” Baldur says with a full laugh. “I am anticipating that they want to kill you far more than we ever could—or worse. Perhaps we could sway them from instigating this unfortunate apocalypse we have on our hands.”

“You’ve lost your mind if you think that plan has any merit,” Anael growls.

“Don’t tempt the god of wisdom,” Castiel warns her quietly, which earns him a deep glare.

“You should listen to your brother,” Baldur tells her with a smile. “And, if you’re curious, that isn’t the whole of my plan. If I cannot collect a bounty of Heaven’s most wanted, then I shall dangle their precious… _vessel_ in front of them. Perhaps while Kali gives him an anatomy lesson—I wonder how long a human can survive without their small intestine.”

“Long enough for me to show it to him,” Kali says.

Castiel’s vision whitens and he thrashes, pulls at the binds until his wrists are a raw. He is small compared to this god, in every possible way, but his skin is hot with anger. “You will not touch Dean Winchester.”

“Ah,” Baldur sighs, tilting his head. His eyes darken with understanding. “Unfortunate, that I must threaten something you clearly care so dearly about. But I’m afraid it’s already too late.” Baldur pushes Castiel back into the chair and snaps his fingers, the rope returning around his wrists, strung so tight his hands begin to numb. “Mercury! Bring me the vessel! And, angel,” he says, capturing Castiel’s eyes. “The angels won’t let him die, so you mustn’t worry about his meager little life ending.”

But if Dean’s handed over to the angels, his life _will_ be over!

His entire body goes numb, and he is _sick_ when the door to the hall opens, and Dean is being dragged by the man—the _god—_ from the lobby. He’s bound and gagged and face red. He’s screaming and trying to kick, but Mercury has him by his hoodie and Dean is merely being dragged on his bloody knees. Castiel jerks against his restraints and his suddenly yelling for Dean, panic filling each fiber of his being.

It’s when Dean’s eyes meet his; surprised and _terrified_ beyond anything that Castiel has ever seen on Dean’s face, that Castiel feels true despair. Not when he fell from Heaven at risk of death, not when Zachariah had nearly killed him on earth before Anael saved him, but seeing _Dean_ with a jade dagger pressed against his jugular.

Mercury removes the gag, but Dean is voiceless. His eyes are red, and Castiel sees his swollen lips wrap around his name.

_“Cas…”_

A blur of events occur, beginning with Castiel thrashing against the enchanted robe binding him. His eyes are on Dean, whose own flutter open and shut. Mercury is holding him up, because otherwise Dean would fall. His knees are limp and threatening to fold beneath his body. Castiel is vaguely aware that he’s saying Dean’s name, trying to ensure that he does not fall into complete unconsciousness. If Castiel breaks free, he will end each and every God in the room. Oh, there is pride swelling in his gut, disillusioned hubris which declares that even in his weakened state he could obliterate each danger in his presence with the power of his will alone.

Dean does not last, though. Castiel sees blood dripping from his ear, onto his shirt, and he thrashes this entire chair forward until the legs snap. It’s actually the worst possible thing he could do, because he’s still has his hands tied behind the chair and it lurches forward—and his cheek slams into the tile flooring, right at Baldur’s feet. He refuses to whimper when Baldur presses the heel of his shoe to the back of Castiel’s neck.

“There is no sense in fighting,” he tells Castiel.

The last thing he feels impact of shoe against his face, and he sees black and white and then he cannot see at all.

 

* * *

Castiel expected death would take him, his Father ushering him into some afterlife crafted for angels. Where angels go following obliteration is a mystery, even to the archangels. In his infinite lifetime, Castiel has even doubted that his consciousness will continue. 

He hears someone speaking his name in the dark chambers of his mind, and Castiel reaches for it. It feels like home, and if he squints into the darkness he can see a faint light reaching for him. It gets brighter, and the echo his name is breaking his cloud of worry—he’s sure it is God, it _must_ be, to achieve this sense of...balance.

The light glows close to him, warm. But it’s taking another form—or rather, another color. A deep rich green, like the blades of grass he found in his most cherished paradise in heaven—the field by a babbling brook. It’s the color of life.

He is alive, and in pain.

“Cas...Cas, come on, man.” Dean’s voice is suddenly clear, ringing like bells loudly in his ears. He groans, allowing his eyes to flicker open. The light around is so overwhelming, he has to bring his forearm over his face to block it out. 

Dean probes, touching Cas’s bicep in what can only be described as tender. “Are you okay?” His voice is as soft as the touch

“No,” Castiel moans miserably, letting his arm fall away. Dean helps him up, firmly lifting him by the small of his back so that he’s sitting erect on the floor. He’s suddenly aware that it is _cold,_ and gooseflesh crawls up his arms at the thought. It’s oddly instinctive when he runs his hands up and down his forearms, and hisses when he feels his raw flesh object to the touch.

“Don’t touch your arms! They—those bastards cut you up...bad,” Dean says as he smacks his hands away. The memory of blades carving him in Enochian binding sigils makes Castiel wince, but when he looks down at the sigils he is pleased to see that the blood has clotted at least. They haven’t healed that much, but enough so that the symbols are nearly nonsensical. The pain isn’t as bad when he’s not touching his arms, but Castiel thinks it’s because the flesh is numb from the cold.

“Where are we?” he croaks.

“A freezer.” It’s Anael, sitting on the other side of him, her jaw set. “A very large freezer...”

“Yeah, I guess after they knocked me out, you guys put up a fight and—they didn’t like that,” Dean murmurs, and Castiel’s chest clenches. “Oh, and thanks, by the way, for not telling me you have a hot sister.”

“Anna? My sister?”

“Me, Cas,” Anael says firmly, nodding her head slightly. Oh—of course, that must be her cover for why she is with Castiel in the first place. After their earlier detachment, and Castiel’s resentment, the idea of Anael considering him a brother sounds very wrong. He supposes that lies are merely cogs in this machine.

“Right.” Castiel rubs his temple. “Baldur kicked me hard.” It is an as easy explanation as any.

“So that’s what they call the slick son of a bitch in charge of this shit,” Dean growls. He leans against the wall of the freezer next to Castiel, close enough that their elbows brush, which causes an pleasant flare of warmth in Castiel’s stomach. “I was looking for you after school. I thought maybe you’d gone to the library—you always tell me that’s where you go when you’re not at home or with me. This little pipsqueak came out of nowhere and bagged me, and I honest to god fought.” Dean’s eyes fall, and he pulls his knees to his chest. “Not hard enough.”

“Don’t—do not feel ashamed. They are powerful…people,” Castiel tells Dean. He cannot tell him that these are Pagan gods. How can he possibly explain the predicament they have found themselves in?

He is spared from the burden of providing a valid explanation when Anael inserts her voice in the air. “I had to pick Castiel up from school for an...appointment,” she tells Dean eloquently. “They captured us on the way to our car.”

Dean nods, and Castiel exhales a breath of relief. There is no suspicion playing in his eyes—that Castiel sees.

“So what are we going to do?” Dean mumbles, fists clenching in his lap. “I can’t just _sit_ here. We gotta do something.”

“Can you not open the door?” he directs his question toward Anael. Obscurely, she pulls up her sleeves and reveals that the sigils are still etched into her skin. Not having healed completely, she is as incapable as Castiel.

“Won’t budge,” Dean answers. He sounds despondent, but rolls up onto his knees, and up to his feet. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m cold as fuck. I need to move.”

The freezer is large, and Dean makes fast of pacing every inch. Anael leans close to Castiel’s ear and whispers quickly, “They are going to keep us here until they summon an angel to... retrieve us.”

“What happened after I was subdued?”

A smile flickers on Anael’s lips. “Loki arrived.”

“Loki?” Castiel blurts a little too loud. Dean stops moving and looks down at them, curious. “I mean... we must _locate_ a means of escape,” Castiel sputters. “We will certainly freeze to death in approximately two hours.”

“Uh...” Dean frowns. “If there was something to do, we would have done it already.” He grabs on to a metal shelf to adjust his balance. He exhales a steady breath—it flows out of his mouth like a little gust of smoke—and looks down at Castiel. “You see, there _is_ a ventilation system, too small for a person to fit through, but large enough to… I don’t know, send something through.”

“Like what?” Anael says shortly.

Her lack of enthusiasm deflates Dean considerably. He grumbles and resumes his pacing, and Castiel wishes he knew what Dean had been thinking before Anael shot him down.

Upon noticing that Dean wasn’t paying attention to either of them, Anael leans close to him again. “Yes, _he_ came and they are not aware of what he is. But I think he is going to help us.”

“Or,” Castiel deadpans queitly, “he is working with the Pagans. In which case, our fate is foreordained in our blood and misery.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.” Anael lifts her eyes, blue and dark, and they shutter closed. “Have faith.”

 

* * *

 

The colder Castiel grows, the more faith he loses.

Dean gives up his methodical pacing and sits down next to Castiel again. Eventually, the space between them becomes null. They both are in need of body heat, and Castiel would gladly share his with Dean. They have just never been so _close—_ he is too aware of Dean.

“Cas, don’t fall asleep on me.” Castiel did not even realize his eyes had fluttered shut until he hears Dean’s voice, and then his fingers squeezing his bicep. Dean’s words rouse him and his eyes eyes pry open. Frost flicks off his eyelashes and onto his corneas, melting immediately.

“I am v-very cold,” Castiel murmurs into the silence, staring ahead. “And tired.” He rolls his neck, peering down onto his arms. The sigils on them are preventing him from healing as fast as he should, blocking his powers almost completely. His Grace is so dim, like dampened coals in the pit of his stomach.

Anael remains silent but captures one of Castiel’s hands and rubs it soothingly. She is cold too, but she still has some power despite the sigils carved in her skin. She will not freeze in here, but Castiel cannot confidently say the same about Dean or himself.

“We need to do s-somthing,” Dean says midshiver. “To stay awake.” He pauses for a thorough moment of thought. “What about I Spy?”

“I am unfamiliar with that game.”

“What how can you not know—” Dean starts, but staggers when he looks to Castiel. It’s a look of understanding, and he rolls his eyes. “Okay, I just give you a hint of the th-th-thing I’m thinking, and you g-gotta guess it.”

It sounds easy enough. “Alright.”

“‘Kay,” Dean murmurs and casts a long wide glance around the freezer. “I spy with my little eye—something _white._ ”

“Dean, everything in here is white.”

He smiles. “And there, my friend, is the fun.”

Castiel is very bad at Dean’s game, but mostly because his mind is elsewhere. It is growing ever evident that the gods might be content to let Dean _die_ in this freezer, from over-exposure or to suffocation, one of the two, knowing that the angels may just bring him back to life. He is not _collateral_ or under any kind of protection. Castiel is supposed to be his protector. He is failing miserably.

He clenches his fists, his bones grinding weakly and painfully, but his skin is too numb to feel any ghost of pain.

“Castiel,” Anael murmurs beside him. He tilts his head to look at her. She is clutching her forearms to her chest, but she turns out her wrists. The sigils have healed.

“Get us out of here,” Castiel says, his voice uneven and waning from exhuastion. He flexes his legs to see if he maintains the strength to stand. Dean shifts beside him and groans, complaining tiredly that Castiel is taking away his body heat. Castiel touches his cheek, and even though he, too, is freezing, Dean’s skin is the most shocking kind of cold. He turns back to Anael, eyes burning and commands, “ _Now_.”

Anael nods and reaches to touch Castiel’s shoulder, but he does not even register a touch at all before he’s being pulled by some foreign force. He gasps as vivid warmth touches his raw arms.

“Well if it isn’t Bonnie and Clyde! Oh, and your little monkey pet. Wouldn’t forget you—Dean, is it?”

A brief survey of the area indicates that they are indoors—in fact, the room is a _greenroom_. Castiel can feel the angelic pulse of sigils beneath the floor, in the walls. Powerful angels can build rooms that are completely undetectable and are directly powered by the Nucleus, which allows enough power for reality to be bent.

He finds himself standing between Dean and Anael, before a dark haired man. His eyes widen when he sees the faint outline of a golden halo—bright, despite his weakened senses and angelic vision.

“Loki,” Anael says evenly with a set jaw. Her eyes are narrowed and he laughs.

He gesticulates his arms outward. “That’s me!”

“Loki?” Dean repeats. He laughs and shakes his head. “I was expecting a little more Hiddles, a little less Barney Fife.”

Loki—or Gabriel, rather, raises his brow. “You better watch yourself. You aren’t really in the best position to be back-talking a god.”

Dean snickers, as if the idea of Gabriel being a god is ludicrous. It actually is, since he is most obviously an archangel—nevertheless, he has the strength of a _Pagan_ god. “Yeah. Right.”

Gabriel frowns and slowly raises a hand, his thumb and middle finger arching together. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Dean-o.” Castiel flinches when Gabriel snaps his fingers and Dean is suddenly…immobile on the floor. Castiel falls to the ground, fingers itching toward Dean—except he is no longer a human. At least, the size of one. Dean is inches tall, laying on his side. His skin is not plush to the touch, as Castiel tentatively touches his fingertips to Dean’s cheek. It’s hard and plastic. A _doll._

“Turn him back,” Castiel says, eyes snapping to Gabriel. “Turn him back _now._ ”

“Hold up—you’re telling _me_ what to do?” Gabriel murmurs, brows arching high on his forehead. “You’re in no position, little brother.”

“But I am,” Anael says. Castiel remains static, but he is doubtful that she could rival Gabriel’s power. Or maybe he underestimates how much power she siphoned from the Nucleus before falling. “You said you would help us, and you let us get captured by Pagans and stuffed inside an oversized cooler. Were you going to let them serve us a silver platter as well?”

“Why would I snap you out of said freezer if I was invested in their little Pagan games? And, for the record, I never said I’d help you.”

“Then why did you bring us here?” Castiel demands.

Gabriel tilts his head, rolling on his heels. “Curiosity, mostly. And sympathy, for your renegade. I left Heaven because I was fed up. I’m a little...pleased that I’m not the only one.”

“Then tell us how to defeat Lucifer, to stop Michael.” Castiel narrows his eyes.

“Now, what makes you think I’d do that?” he says. “Out of pity? _Please._ I turned your little boy toy into, well, a _boy toy—_ ” Gabriel laughs heartily at his own attempt at humor. “—because what my brother’s gonna do to him? _So_ much worse.”

“That does not explain why you even replied to Anael’s calls,” Castiel reasons. “It does not explain why you led us here, where we could potentially expose that you’re indeed the archangel Gabriel and _not_ Loki.”

“Because I know how to cover my ass, of course.”

“I think that you did not just abandon Heaven so you could be a Pagan god, to consort with magic and mysticism.You’re different.”

Gabriel lips work, eyes falling partially shut as he holds up a finger. “One difference. I did not rebel.”

“You defected.”

“Defection implies I swapped sides—I am on _my_ side,” he replies.

“The Pagans do not thrive off of anything but those who worship them. You obviously craved attention from the human sector, otherwise you would have stayed in Heaven,” Castiel says confidently. “You want the humans to live. Therefore, you are going to tell us how to stop Lucifer and Michael.”

“You pompous little _seraph_ ,” Gabriel murmurs between ground teeth. But he does not react any further, except to reach into his pant pocket. He pulls out a simple golden band and examines it in the light. “You’re right though.” His eyes lift to meet Castiel’s. “I’ll tell you what you need to know to stop my brothers. But I’m not going to help. I’d rather stay in witness protection, thank you very much.”

Gabriel throws the ring to Castiel, and he catches it—barely. “That there, little brother, is a Horseman of the Apocalypse’s ring.”

“The Horsemen walk?” Castiel feels his blood chill, as all the stories he has been told about the Horsemen incite fear throughout the leagues of Heaven. They are agents of destruction, a means to The End that he is so desperate to stop. They are also a new, unanticipated threat that As he rolls the ring between his fingertips, warm to the touch, Castiel mentally adds them to the long list of things that must be defeated before the world can be saved.

“Yep, that one came from the Red one, a big ol’ prick if I do say so myself.”

“War,” Anael says with widened eyes as Castiel hands the ring to her.

“He was causing everyone in my favorite little town to kill each other. It was such a shame—there’s this _really_ nice strip club where all the girls had nice bods because of their supple diet of whole milk and pork ribs.” He sighed happily. “Love small towns.”

“So you killed a Horseman.” Anael glances up to him with a suspicious glance. “How will this stop Lucifer? Michael?”

“Well, you see, if you collect all four, you kind of got yourself a little key to a very special door. The door to Lucifer’s cage, to be exact. I don’t know the enchantment to open the damn thing, but rumor has it Death does.”

“Death?” Castiel repeats. “ _The_ Death. The White Horseman?”

“Bingo. He’s older than dirt. Older than God, all gods in fact. I recommend you go after him _last_ , because he’ll be the hardest to kill I wager. If it’s even possible, you know.” He smiles, devious, because killing _death—_ that is the most redundant phrase ever spoken. “I really wish you luck on this impossible endeavor, but I should be going.”

“What about Michael?” Castiel reminds him. “How do we keep him from unleashing his wrath on Earth?”

“Oh. Was the solution to Michael’s big head no obvious? You get your little boy toy to say yes, and then push him in the hole along with Luci.”

Castiel clenches his fists, finally having regained feeling in his hands. “That is not an option.”

Gabriel shrugs. “What you _think_ are and aren’t options is _so_ not my problem. Now, I’m going to pop you all on home and Dean-o here back to life-size, but just remember—you _never_ saw me. Got it?”

Castiel is stewing in anger, silent, so Anael answers for both of them. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Don’t,” Gabriel says searingly. Castiel feels a pang of sympathy, because there is true remorse in his eyes. “Don’t thank me for plotting against my big brothers. _Don’t._ ” And then he snaps his fingers, sending them forward into oblivion.

 


	6. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ve got a secret,” he whispers bluntly, the words harshly contrasting against the night’s static. Castiel feels his mouth go dry and turns only his head to look at Dean. In the darkness, the only light peering through the blinds in the form of moonlight, Castiel can see Dean’s eyes. They are infinite as ever, flickering between a hazel and a deep, vivid green. They are also unforgivably hard as they study Castiel.
> 
> “Yes,” Castiel admits, voice more raw than he is accustomed to. He rolls onto his side, mirroring Dean. “But I’m keeping you safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you EVERYONE for all the wonderful feedback. Here's an extra long update, hope you enjoy!

The three of them land in the middle of the street outside Dean’s house. It takes a moment for Castiel to gather his footing, but when he does he then becomes distinctly aware of a groan coming from the ground.

“Dean?” he murmurs, plunging to his knees. Dean has luckily returned to his normal size and is laying on his stomach. Castiel gently pushes his shoulder and squeezes him (to verify that he’s not plastic anymore) and his senses suddenly go haywire when he feels a burst of energy splurge from the spot. It blossoms through his fingers, up his arm, and shrouds a blanket of warmth over his worry Dean’s open wide, as he stares where their skin meets, and then the gaze bounds up to meet Castiel’s eyes. He forces himself to unlatch from Dean in that moment, because he realizes that he’s touching the handprint—the _scar—_ he created.

He can only hope that Dean’s attention span is so short that he does not make the connection or question why Castiel has pulled himself away. Fortunately, Dean simply palms his eyes and groans before pushing himself off the ground. He wobbles, but doesn’t seek any help to find his balance. Instead he gruffly asks, “What the hell just happened?”

Castiel nearly forgot Anael was still present until she spoke from his side. “We were knocked unconscious. And then they brought us here,” she murmurs, voice sounding disheveled as her rumpled clothes and hair. 

“Who were those freaks?” Dean murmurs, staring down the street. “And _fuck—_ they know where I live! We need to—call the police, or something.”

“No,” Castiel replies, too quickly. Dean looks at him oddly with a tilted gaze. “Do you think they will believe we were, in fact, kidnapped by…gods?”

“No,” Dean says slowly. “But they’ll believe we were kidnapped by some _freaks_ who _think_ they are gods.” He looks between Castiel and Anael quickly. “That’s what they were, right? Crazy fucking psychos?”

Castiel glances toward Anael from the corner of his eye, the slight nod of her head agreement enough. “They... they had powers, Dean,” Castiel says in a low, secretive voice. “Their mental state, regardless, does not explain how they... did some of those things.”

Dean’s lips are curling in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Anael’s heavy sigh breaks the explanation—one that, perhaps, would have been too truthful for the circumstance—hanging on Castiel’s lips. “We are not going to the authorities. Dean, you must go home and I must take Castiel with me—”

“But Cas needs a doctor!” Dean cries, suddenly grabbing Castiel by his wrist. Despite himself, Castiel hisses and tries to cringe away. Dean mutters an apology as he catalogues the carvings that trace down onto the backside of his palms. The pagans, albeit, were through at least.

“I do not wish to see a doctor,” he tells them firmly.

“Then, let my mom look at it,” Dean insists. “She—she can keep a secret, alright? No police. She’s gonna be worried about me anyway and I’ll have to tell her _something_.”

“You mustn't say much,” Anael says. “You could—endanger her as well.”

Castiel catches how acutely Anael twists her statement to manipulate Dean, use his protective nature to keep him quiet.

Despite Dean’s attempts, Anael decides to not accompany Dean and Castiel back to Dean’s house. It is late, perhaps nearly one in the morning, when Dean fumbles around the porch steps looking for the spare key. Before he can even get it in the lock, the front door is opening and Mary’s being pours out. Her face is distraught,wet even, from tears.

“Dean!” she cries, throwing her arms around him, lips finding into his shoulder and he breathes him in briefly before she cups his face. “Are you alright? Where were you?” She badgers him with an endless string of questions, the seam only breaking when she notices Castiel standing behind him. “You!”

There is something terrifying on the edge of her voice when she lets Dean go and steps toward him instead. “What did you do with my son?”

“Mom!” Dean protests, pulling her back by her shoulders. “Look—the freaks who took me—us—they cut up his arms!”

Castiel turns his forearms conveniently outward, revealing the most prominent sigils carved into them. Mary does not even attempt to feign confusion of terror when she takes his wrist and turns his arms, examining the symbols in the porch light. Castiel is sure that Mary, nor her Campbell heritage, has seen the angel sigils, so his identity should remain safe.

But he is not safe from her suspicious gaze, which seems to relax upon Dean’s insisting. With visible hesitancy, she invites Castiel into the house along with Dean. The lights are all off, so when she flips on the fluorescents in the kitchen Castiel cannot help but wince.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asks him, his fingers laying against his shoulder as he directs Castiel to sit down at the kitchen table.

He shakes his head. “I...it’s just bright, is all,” Castiel murmurs. Castiel’s true form is much brighter than the weak fluorescent, yet his human retinas are... sensitive. He cannot help but feel a wave of sickness, of fear, pull over him.

Mary is pulling up a chair next to him with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some gauze. Castiel closes his eyes as she applies the stinging liquid, holding back the hiss of pain.

“Would you boys like to tell me what in the world happened?” Mary says, and Castiel opens his eyes to see that Dean is giving him a panicked look. What Anael said, about too much knowledge of the situation endangering Mary, it is true. The specifics of the plan to stop the apocalypse never considered that the former hunter would find them out. But it must be blatantly obvious that Castiel’s injuries are the result of some Supernatural interference. There are few secrets that can be kept at this point without causing further suspicions to be raised.

“We were taken,” Castiel says with a sigh. “Dean and I were unconscious much of the time. The—our captors planned to feast upon our flesh, I suspect.”

“What do you remember?” Mary asks.

“One of them called himself Loki,” Dean says. “Like, the Avengers. But not.”

“They believed themselves to be Pagans,” Castiel adds darkly. “I do not think they were interested in avenging anything.”

Dean’s lips quirk into a small smile, something that Castiel can hardly wrap his head around in his condition.

Mary nods and ignores the one thing that Castiel cannot: how Dean is looking at him.

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” she tells Dean, and then Castiel. “You are safe, and that’s what matters, but spreading this around will cause...panic.”

“No one would believe us, anyways,” Dean mumbles.

“That too.” Mary begins to wrap the gauze around one of Castiel’s arms after cleaning them of the dried blood and any bacteria laying on the surface. The wounds were deep, though not too deep that the blood could not manage to clot on its own. “Do I need to make a call to your parents?”

Castiel’s eyes widen. “No, no, that will not be necessary.”

“They are going to be worried, I’m sure,” Mary insists, lowering her eyes. “I could call and let them know you’ve been with Dean.”

Based on her tone, Castiel knows that her mother’s instinct will not let this issue relax. “I do not live with anyone but myself,” he says. “I have not seen my father in... many a year.”

“What?” Dean blurts. “What about your sister—”

“I hardly ever see An—Anna,” Castiel explains quickly before Dean can expose Anael’s existence. “I did not want to tell anyone that I am alone, because I did not want... superfluous attention.”

“Cas, you’re my friend, I’m not gonna treat you differently just ‘cause your parents left—or, whatever.” Dean purses his lips, looking down into his lap. “I wish you told me.”

“Dean...” Castiel murmurs.

“Castiel, I want you to stay here for the time being,” Mary announces, rising from his chair. “After this... I don’t want either of you to be alone. If they—those people—come back, I’ll take care of it.” She flicks her eyes back and forth between Castiel and Dean. Castiel is staring at Dean, whose eyes are lost in the the lines of his own hands. His expression bears a sense of perpetual guilt, which makes Castiel’s core wrought with an equivalent guilty weight in his chest. He does not like seeing Dean so weighed down for no reason.

“Okay,” is all Castiel can reply.

“I’ll leave you two...to talk. But go to bed soon, boys. I’ll keep you home from school tomorrow, Dean and—Cas, I think you should stay as well.”

“Thank you.”

After a few seconds of silence and refusal to make eye contact, Dean rises from his chair and pats his thighs. “Well, let’s hit the sack,” he mutters, motioning for Castiel to follow. As they go, Dean is pulling off his vest and undoing the buttons on his shirt then unceremoniously casting the discarded items in the corner of his room. “I’ll get you a clean shirt,” he tells Castiel, because his dress shirt is stained with blood.

He takes off his vest and shirt, something he hasn’t done since he put it on, given that his angelic powers were able to keep his vessel’s hygiene up to parr.

The shirt Dean pulls from his dresser is a Led Zeppelin graphic t-shirt, which causes a strange lifting feeling to surge from the center of his ribcage and pushes against his beating heart. He thinks of a distant memory, which should not be that distant at all but in the new human perspective, time seems longer.

Dean averts his eyes when Castiel changes, which is when he realizes that when Dean stripped to his shirt, that he had not. Blush creeps up in his cheeks despite himself, because his memory is suddenly calling up the casual memory of Dean’s back rippling as he tugged the fabric off his chest.

Undoubtedly, Castiel shames himself for letting those thoughts cloud his judgement, and he roughly tugs Dean’s shirt on.

“You done?” Dean says, and Castiel confirms with a hum. Dean’s eyes flick down Castiel’s form and he can see Dean’s jaw working, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the lines of his throat. “I’m too tired to, uh, pump the air mattress. My bed’s big enough for two, though.” He coughs, clearing his throat. “If you’re okay with that.”

Since he does not see the harm, Castiel nods and goes to the opposite side of the bed Dean usually sleeps on. Dean peels back the covers when they climb in, and then pulls the blanket over their bodies. Dean’s bed is rather large, but he still remains on the very edge. Castiel is comfortable stretching across his half of the mattress, considering his body feels a level of exhaustion that he can only assumes comes with being stripped away of his angelic power.

Dean turns over on his side suddenly, jerking the comforter as he presses his cheek into the pillow, eyes locking onto Castiel.

“You’ve got a secret,” he whispers bluntly, the words harshly contrasting against the night’s static. Castiel feels his mouth go dry and turns only his head to look at Dean. In the darkness, the only light peering through the blinds in the form of moonlight, Castiel can see Dean’s eyes. They are infinite as ever, flickering between a hazel and a deep, vivid green. They are also unforgivably hard as they study Castiel.

“Yes,” Castiel admits, voice more raw than he is accustomed to. He rolls onto his side, mirroring Dean. “But I’m keeping you safe.”

Dean’s lips part, but he does not speak. No, instead he exhales a singular, loud breath that washes over Castiel’s face. His scent is strong, like mint, and he finds himself pushing closer, lured by the familiar yet intoxicating. He’s passing a boundary, but it’s only out of pure lack of will. Or maybe an over abundance of free will.

To his surprise, Dean only inches closer. But it is his hand that moves with the most force, reaching for Castiel’s bandaged arm which is pulled against his chest. His fingers form a single shackle around his wrist as he extends Castiel’s arm, revealing the faint crimson bleeding through the gauze.

“Does it hurt?” The question is so quiet that Castiel isn’t even sure he heard it, except that Dean’s supple lips moved.

“Not very much,” Castiel answers.

Dean shifts his hand, subtly releasing Castiel only to take his hand again. Except their hands mesh not as a form of capture, not even one of clinical examination. He stares opened-eyed as their fingers lace together against the pillow separating them. Their palms press flushly against each other as Dean squeezes, but his eyes are closed so Castiel cannot gauge what is happening—what kind of storm brews in Dean’s mind to shatter each line ever made and was wordlessly agreed to never be crossed. A canon ignites in his chest, his heart plundering toward oblivion when Dean’s thumb rubs against his hand, so soft, so _comforting_.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Dean whispers, licking his lips. It’s only shortly after the words passed his lips that Dean’s hand loosens, because he falls asleep. Castiel is surprised that he does not do the same, but he supposes he is not human enough to join Dean in slumber. And he’s not angel enough, he discovers, to lift the curtain on Dean’s dreams.

So he watches Dean sleep, which is far from a foreign concept. Except he not only is allowed to touch Dean...but Dean’s fingers loosely stay intertwined with him the duration of the whole night.

It’s a consolation, but far from perfect.

 

* * *

 

Through the night, Castiel remains motionless. Therefore, he is not to blame when their ankles intertwine and Dean’s face pressed into Castiel’s collarbone. Light filters through the blinds—sunlight—and rouses Dean. The bridge of his nose goes flush against Castiel’s collarbone and he exhales a hot breath.

Beyond their entangled legs, Dean has foregone holding Castiel’s hand and instead has an arm around his midsection. They are so close, and Castiel tries to remain a stagnant force of nature rather than react. He has regained some of his power, feels more celestial energy in him and supplying the self-control he requires to just _ignore_ the stirring in the pit of his stomach. Whether he contains the conscious memory upward of a millennia is moot, considering his body is all too human and _pubescent._ Despite his better judgement, his best attempts to control the chemical flow, his body is reacting.

The sting of mortification is short lived, because as Dean shifts and their bodies press just a little closer, Castiel feels something warm and hard wedged between Dean’s leg and his thigh. He freezes, eyes snapping wide as the hard extremity brushes— _grinds—_ into his own. He blinks hard and begins to pull back, but Dean groans and pulls even closer, if it’s possible. 

It is. Dean is practically on top of him, his leg hugging Castiel’s thigh as he snores against his neck.

The last thing that Castiel wants is for Dean to wake up and find them contorted in such a manner and to discover Castiel’s sexual arousal. He had invited Dean into his bed under the pretense of being friends. The only option he really has is to blink away, to rip himself away from Dean’s clutches and hope that he’ll stay asleep.

One quick blink and Castiel is standing beside the bed, Dean’s body thumping against the mattress where Castiel laid. He squirms a little, clutching his pillow for purchase and burying his face into it, but his breath falls slow once again.

Castiel has only been into the bathroom connected to Dean’s bedroom once, and it was to retrieve a towel because Dean had spilt his Dr. Pepper over his guitar amplifier and was in the process of drying it with his flannel before it ‘fucked up the electric’. This time, Castiel actually goes in and locks the door, and then across the vanity to stare at his reflection. He does not possess vanity, because this is not technically his body. But he has grown curious over the months. What is it about his face that causes Dean’s eyes to linger on his eyes, his lips? Castiel has little concept about what makes a male attractive. All he knows is that Dean’s physique ignites a resounding _yes_ in his deepest thoughts.

Those thoughts he wishes to silence, so he turns on the faucet and runs a stream of cold water. He tests it on the tips of his fingers before cupping the drizzle in his hands, splashing it in his face with a sufficient amount has gathered. He lingers there for a few minutes, repeating the action until he’s sure that the heat in his body has subsided.

When he returns to Dean’s room, he’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, stretching his arms above his head. He catches Cas reentering out of the corner of his eye and turns his head with a small grin. “Hey.”

“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel says, and simply stands watching. Dean’s eyes shift, seeming uncomfortable, and he clears his throat.

“So, um, how’re your arms?”

“Good,” Castiel says. They have healed completely under the bandages, which he changed with a simple blink sometime during the night. Better to keep his healing abilities concealed. “I just cleaned them and applied fresh gauze.”

“Where’d you get gauze?”

“Your mother must have laid some on your bathroom sink sometime during the night,” Castiel lies easily.

“Oh, okay.” Dean does not suspect Castiel, once again. “What time is it?” he mumbles to himself, leaning back toward his nightstand to read his alarm clock.

“Nearly ten,” Castiel answers anyways. “I apologize if I woke you.”

“S’fine. I’m hungry anyways. I just remembered I didn’t have dinner last night.”

For not remembering that Dean needed sustenance, Castiel feels a pang of guilt.

Dean yawns and rolls on his heels off the bed. “C’mon, let’s get a bite.”

In the hallway, Castiel can smell the distinct scent of oil and cinnamon, and immediately senses Mary in the kitchen. The sounds of pans clattering and the sink water running confirm this. Mary catches sight of them and she smiles first at Dean, then gives Castiel a more speculative glance. He is undeterred and meets her gaze with subtle curiosity, and his head tilts. He wishes he had enough strength to brush the surface of her thoughts, gauge her suspicion.

“Sit down, Cas,” Dean says, smiling. “I’ll get you something.” Mary breaks the eye contact as Castiel sits at the breakfast table.

“How are you boys feeling?” she asks.

Dean is rummaging through the fridge when he answers. “ _Hungry._ ” He pulls out a jug of orange juice and then two glasses from the cabinet.

“I’m making eggs with zucchini and butternut squash,” Mary says. “And I’m making plenty, since the grocery store had a good sale, trying to get rid of the off-season vegetables. I know you’re a hungry young man.” She smirks at Dean, who is rolling his eyes as he carries a glass of juice to Castiel. He accepts it, and tentatively presses the glass to his lips. He is a stranger to citrus. It’s bitter on his tongue but he swallows, wincing.

“Thank you,” he tells Dean, and is answered with a warm smile.

Mary wipes her hands and places a lid over one of the saucers, leaving it took cook, and then walks around the counter to stand next to the table. “How are your arms, Castiel?”

“The pain is tolerable,” he lies. “I tended to them this morning and changed the bandages.”

Her eyebrows furrow and she holds out a hand, silently requesting one of Castiel’s wrists. He hesitates—what if she decides to peel the gauze down and reveals his perfectly smooth, uncut wrists? Castiel ultimately decides that cooperation is the best way to deter suspicion.

She cradles his wrist and merely pats the bandaging, eyes flicking up to Castiel’s face. He feigns pain in the best way he knows, though pain isn’t as nearly extreme as he realize it should be. She is satisfied and releases his wrist. “I think the food is ready.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Dean Winchester tells you to eat, you’d better eat and thoroughly enjoy it. At least, that is what Castiel has managed to discern after months and countless lunches and dinner spent with him. And now, Castiel is learning the wonders of scrambled eggs for the first time.

He is a slow eater, mostly because he is overly aware of the human digestion system. Dean finishes early and takes his dishes to the sink. Mary is still washing the frying pan used to make the eggs, scrubbing off the grease with nearly scalding water.

“Where’s Sam?” Dean asks, eyes blinking hard.

Mary lays down the pan and shuts off the water. She grabs a dishtowel and begins to rub the water from her hands. “At school.”

“Why? You should have let him stay home and hang out with us,” Dean complains.

“Oh?” Mary rests a hand on her hip and cocks her head at Dean. “I _could_ have made you go to school. Your brother wasn’t kidnapped by—norse gods.” Her expression wavers a little, eyes flicking to Castiel. He reads the suspicion and resumes eating his eggs.

“I was supposed to drive him over to Ruby’s after school,” he murmured.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take him. I met her the other day; she is a very pretty girl.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, shrugging. “For a fifteen year-old.”

“I think when your father gets back we need to have a conversation with Sam,” Mary goes on, thoughtful as she returns to arranging plates.

“Jesus Christ, Mom. Give the kid a break. He went to public school, he knows the ins and outs of…you know.”

“Or maybe it’s because his big brother bought him porn.”

Dean’s eyes go wide and he buckles, voice squeaking. “He told you? That little…”

“Dean, please,” Mary chuckles and lays a hand on his cheek. “You should know by now that I don’t need your brother to tattle on you. I have my ways of finding things out.”

Castiel doesn’t miss the side glance she gives him once again. He suspects that the undertone of this conversation was not to embarrass or induce punishment upon Dean, but to establish the threat that she does pose toward Castiel.

And she does pose a threat. Not to Castiel’s being; fully-charged Grace or not, only an angel blade can take his life and leave his vessel empty of angel or human consciousness. Still, exposing his angelic nature will jeopardize any hope of keeping Dean out of harm’s way. If there is any being in Lawrence who can expose him, it is Mary Winchester.

That cannot happen.

Dean seems a little rattled by Mary’s veil of a response. “Um…yeah, sorry.”

She gives him a pointed look. “We will discuss this another day. In the meantime, how about you call your coach.” She touches Dean’s shoulder and squeeze. “You very well cannot go to practice with a...stomach virus.” She winks.

A smile breaks on his lips. “Mother knows best. I’ll call him now, I think his free period is right before lunch.” Dean looks to Cas. “I’ll get you, um, some of my clothes while I’m getting my phone.”

Castiel nods, and Dean smiles before turning to go down the hall. By now, he has picked over his plate and has eaten all he can stand. What he feels is not satisfaction, just a fullness indicating that he did not require sustenance in the first place. He gathers his silverware and glass onto the plate and carries it to the sink, just as Dean had done. Mary smiled and gestured for him to lay his plate down.

“Did you enjoy it?” she asks.

Castiel is unsure over question for a moment, then remembers she is referring to the food. “Yes. Your meal preparations are always satisfactory.” He pauses and glances from the corner of his eye. “Especially when you neglect to oversaturate it with salt.”

She hums a noncommittal response. Castiel bite his tongue and wishes he had ended with the first sentence—it was human flattery, completely normal and _polite._ The second sentence he muttered revealed too much. It was a challenge of wills.

One that ignited before Castiel’s eyes as she flung toward him, knife in hand. He tries to recoil, but Mary is determined not to miss him—and she doesn’t. The knife, carved with ancient anti-demonic runes, plunges into the cavity of his chest right bellow his left collarbone. Castiel gasps at the pain, its intensity as he feels the serrated teeth of the knife carve into muscle and against bone.

“Tell me, _Castiel_ ,” Mary grinds out as she twists the knife deeper. “Does that burn more than the salt?”

There are few times in his existence in which Castiel has experienced genuine shock. The first, as he recalls, was watching the Neanderthals lose their link in the Evolutionary chain, to the homosapien sapiens—it was a shock to much of Heaven, actually. The second time Castiel had felt shock was when he learned his brothers, his own kind, had plotted against innocent young boys and desired to ignite the apocalypse prematurely. His range to feel surprise must be lengthening, because Castiel does not understand why Mary Winchester has buried a knife in his chest with no provocation.

She cannot be so certain he isn’t human! Is he so obviously lost to human culture that she was able to spot him, perhaps, from the very first day?

Castiel takes a small risk and lets his knees wobble for a few seconds before they finally break beneath him. Mary lets go of the knife, eyes a little wide as Castiel reaches to touch the handle of the blade. He rubs a thumb across it, reading the carved lines with his touch. The runes are Sanskrit, promising the death of nearly every supernatural creature in existence.

Nearly.

Out of frantic self-preservation Castiel feigns a small struggle and winces—and the hiss that passes his lips is _not_ any form of simulation—as he pulls the blade out. He covers the wound with his palm, slowing the loss of blood but not preventing it from pooling in a large red splotch on Dean’s shirt.

Before he even has a chance to drop the knife, Mary is pushing the barrel of a shotgun to his cheek. He did not see that coming, either.

“Don’t even _bother_ ,” Mary spits under her breath.

Castiel sighs and lets the knife clatter to the floor. His hand snaps up like a viper and twists the head of the barrel, turning it upward as if it were as malleable as clay. After it’s utility as a projectile weapon is eliminated he stands up and drops his hand from the wound. Blood stains trail down the t-shirt, but the wound has already sealed and tingles from the pressure of his palm.

“Mary,” he says softly. “This is all very—violent.”

Her eyes roll and she laughs. “You tell me _I’m_ violent. How about you tell me what the hell you are?” Her eyes dart down to the knife on the floor. She is calculating whether or not she can grab it.

“Your weapons are ineffective against me. I’ll only heal back, and rather quickly.” That isn’t as true as he wishes it would be.

“I noticed.”

“Allow me to explain, or perhaps… provide a demonstration.”

It has been over a millennia since Castiel has been required to display even the slightest shard of his true form to a human. For one, he rarely interacted directly with humans in his prior vessels; secondly, it is very dangerous. It is universally known that an angels true form will burn out one’s eyes in seconds, like an ruthless flash of fire and lightning and fury, but even allowing his Grace to break the thin boundary of celestial energy and human skin bears its own level of risk. As Castiel understands from the whispers of Heaven above, Sam and Dean’s ability to be vessels of Heaven is a genetic disposition inherited from their father’s side. Although she was a hunter, a hunter who comes from a fierce and reputable line of hunters, Mary could be as vulnerable to the image of Castiel’s Grace as any ordinary human.

He hopes that if she is indeed unable to perceive his form without damage to her corneas, that he has enough power retained to heal her.

Mary still regards him as a threat, as she should, but Castiel offers her a smile. Many times it is a human expression he often feigns, but this particular time it bears genuinely that makes his chest feel warmer. He is trying to comfort Mary, he realizes, and it’s so natural—so _human_ —that he must quickly dissolve it from his features in order to regain focus.

He does not miss the way her eyes widen, as if she too were shocked by the smile.

If Castiel were still in touch with Heaven, he would have a much easier time providing a demonstration. It is laborious, yet relieving, when he lets his Grace pulse like a heartbeat in his vessel. From his bare feet to his fingertips he feels inexplicable warmth that quickly contracts into a whirling field of energy in his chest. It grows, seeping into the spaces of his spine, and then harmlessly breaks through the skin of his back. He is faintly aware of the air shuddering around him, the electricity magnetically pulsing and reacting to the pure energy branching out behind him in the form of dark, silken wings. To Mary, they retain a sense of translucency, Castiel suspects; the lights flicker and shadows are painted on the blue wallpaper behind him.

Once his wings are free, he flaps them lightly and the fluorescent light above explodes—glass shatters and flies, but Castiel is fast. His wing is wrapped around Mary as she stifles a scream, though she cannot feel it, feathers rustling as the glass tries to imbed itself in the weaving black and silver patterns his wings create.

Surrounded by darkness, Castiel contracts his wings and lets them recede through the path in which they came. The buzzing in his ears resides when his Grace is compacted, once again, in a bright, whirling orb deep within his chest.

Mary stares, lips parted with surprise and arms tightened to her chest like she anticipates an attack. Castiel bows his head, harmless.

“Mom? Cas?” Dean yells from somewhere in the house, close enough that Castiel can actually feel the vibration of his feet running against the floor. Urgency, he senses, before Dean even enters the kitchen and his wide green eyes pierce through the dampened darkness. “What the fu—he—heck happened?”

“Fuze—or something,” Mary replies shakily. It’s a half-truth, Castiel did unintentionally cause a short fuze and subsequently for the kitchen light to explode overhead. She looks from Dean, to Castiel, her eyes widening again, but differently. “Oh! Castiel!” she exclaims and takes one long stride toward him. He freezes when her fingers prod carefully onto his shoulder, pressing against the tshirt fabric which is still moist with the blood he shed when she stabbed him. “That glass must’ve cut you,” she lies. “Dean, please get the bleach out of my bathroom upstairs while I bandage this up.”

Dean nods silently, stumbling back out of the kitchen, his eyes never leaving Castiel until he has no choice.

The second Dean is out of sight, Mary drops to the floor and goes for the knife. Castiel watches carefully, because he honestly does not want to be stabbed again, but she is frantically looking around the kitchen and _not_ at him. Her eyes set on a potted tree next to the refrigerator, and she buries the knife in the pot and covers it with dirt. Then her eyes turn to him, narrowed, and she extends a long, polished finger towards him. “Listen you son of a bitch,” she bites out. “You may be an angel, but don’t even _think_ I trust you. Now take off your shirt.”

Castiel does as he’s told as she goes to a cabinet and pulls out a white box labeled _first aid_ , and she waves a hand at him, beckoning him near. The first thing she does is wet a rag and wipe off the smeared blood on his chest and shoulder. With another rag, she dries the area and then places a large strip of gauze over the place he was stabbed.Mary glances up to him, and she sees the confusion. “Dean saw the blood, I have to do something,” she explains.

“He cannot know anything,” Castiel says hoarsely.

“No, he can’t.” The implicit agreement gives him reason to sigh a soft breath of relief. “But I need to know what you want with my sons.”

“You must know on some level,” he murmurs back, grave. “Roughly eighteen years ago, you made a deal.”

Mary inhales sharply, her nails subsequently pinching into his skin as she smoothes tape over the gauze. “Please tell me that—that you are not collecting—”

“No! I—no, Mary. I would never hurt them, please believe me when I tell you that,” he says quietly. “A demon collected on your deal fourteen years ago.”

“I don’t understand.” Her face is broken as she steps away. Then her eyes darken. “It has to do with Sam?”

Castiel nods. “Sam and Dean are chosen, Mary, to be vessels of angels. To be the vessel of a war long fought, between Heaven and Hell.The archangel Michael, and Lucifer himself.”

She shakes her head frantically. “No—this is my fault—if I wasn’t so desperate to keep John—”

He lays a hand unto her shoulder, squeezes it though the touch seems unwelcomed at first. “This is not your fault. It was written, long before you were even born. Your deal was only a means to seal Sam’s fate. He was always going to be Lucifer’s vessel.”

She shudders, and Castiel lets his hand fall away. It’s in that moment that Dean returns to the kitchen, his face worried and broken when he sees Mary on the verge of tears. “Mom?”

She sniffs quietly. “I’m fine, honey,” she says. “Take Castiel back upstairs and—let him change. I am going to clean this up, call an electrician.” She stares at them, growing tense when Castiel meets her eyes. Below the layer of saline is a fierce and protective glare that would have confused Dean if it hadn’t dissolved in less than two seconds. Castiel knows that it means do not hurt Dean.

As if he could.

He pads over next to Dean, wrapping his arms around his bare stomach in a shy manner, but Dean isn’t looking at him, at least not at first. He is looking at his mother with a worrisome expression. Castiel reaches out to touch his shoulder, and he flinches, eyes darting toward him. It is then when his eyes glaze over and quickly peel down from his face to his chest. Castiel feels the chemistry of his body flicker and go alight with excited energy, which he represses. He cannot stop the blush from subconsciously curling on his cheeks, or above his breastbone.

“I...I got you a shirt,” Dean stutters plainly. Then he turns to walk down the hall, and Castiel does not need to be directed to follow. To follow Dean, that is etched into his very core now. It’s nearly terrifying, the nonexistent limitations of his devotion. Nearly. Instead he finds comfort in finding a cause, a boy—a _man—_ worth dying for.

 

* * *

 

Weeks pass and Castiel does not hear from nor see Anael. Being completely isolated from his only comrade in this silent war forces him to immerse deeper into the lives of the Winchesters. Mary regards Castiel with caution, confining him to the guest bedroom down the hall—only after Dean _pleads_ with her to let Castiel take up a semi-permanent residence there. She cannot explain to Dean the extent or reason for distrust, just as Castiel cannot explain that him being seventeen (well, his body) is not a valid argument for an inability to live on his own.

Perhaps this is why Anael has been eerily absent. However, she could just appear and play the guise, once again, as his sister Anna. Castiel decides that she is deliberately forcing him to spend more time with the humans he has come to call friends. In any case, he is concerned. 

But he does not complain.

* * *

 

 

Halloween comes and Castiel is utterly confused by the traditions associated with it.

Dean dresses him a torn shirt that hangs off his frame loosely, sliding down his shoulder whenever he moves more than a few steps. It does not bother Castiel, but Dean often mutters something to himself and pushes the fabric with a quick touch. 

They wait outside, leaning against the white wooden posts on the deck until Sam and Mary come through the porch door with large pumpkins clenched in the crooks of their elbows, to their stomachs.

The carving tools are then laid across the patio table, but go untouched for several minutes while Dean scribbles on his pumpkin with a permanent marker. Castiel remains silent, focusing on his hands shakily draw an unfamiliar, geometric design over the natural lumps of orange skin. Mary helps Sam do the same, and the youngest argues that he is fully capable of drawing his own face, whatever that means. Eventually he concedes and hands the marker back to Mary, who smiles fondly the first time in a short while that she has done so in his presence.

“This reminds me when you were little,” she tells Sam, sucking in her bottom lip as she recalls the seemingly pleasant memory. “Always asking mama to carve a pumpkin with a funny face.”

“I’m in high school, though.” Sam pouts. “I still can’t draw faces.”

“At least you’re cute though,” Mary says.

“Naw, I’m the cute one,” Dean jumps in, wiggling his eyebrows at Sam, who stick out his tongue. “He got the brains, in exchange for the ugly mug and the inability to draw on a pumpkin.”

“Jerk,” Sam huffs.

“B—” Dean is about to offer his automatic response, but the sound dies when Mary shoots him a glare. She doesn’t like Dean cursing. “Ah, _double_ jerk.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Lame.”

Dean rolls his eyes just the same—it’s a Winchester trait shared by everyone present—and resumes drawing his face. Castiel is almost smiling at the exchange.

When Dean feels Castiel’s eyes on him, his gaze flickers upward and his hand slips, creating a long stretch of black across the pumpkin’s flesh.

“Jesus Cas, just sit down and stop being creepy,” he mutters breathlessly and tries to wipe the stray mark away with the edge of his jacket sleeve and a little spit. He looks back over just as Castiel sits down, and the change in position causing his tshirt collar to go lopsided again, to fall down his shoulder to reveal the other. Castiel does not miss Dean blinking, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

He saves Dean the trouble of reaching over to tug it back up, straightening it himself. “I do not understand? Why do you draw faces on produce?”

Dean is pulled from his reverie and he meets Castiel’s eyes. “It’s a Jack-o-Lantern,” he says expectantly.

Castiel mirrors his confusion from a few minutes prior, merely blinking.

“Oh my freaking God, you’ve never carved a pumpkin?”

“I—” Castiel begins. Is it normal for humans to carve pumpkins? For food, perhaps, but to carve... _faces?_

Before Castiel can ever give a proper answer, Dean turns to his mother. “Mom. Cas has never carved a pumpkin.”

She looks up briefly from her pumpkin, expression bland and apathetic. “That’s too bad.”

Dean purses his lips and turns back to Cas, a certain amount of energy hinting at the way he’s perched on the edge of his seat. “I bet you’ve never been trick-or-treating either?”

Castiel shakes his head

“Dean!” Sam pipes up. “Dean, you gotta come with me this year and bring Cas! Please?”

“We don’t have costumes.” Dean leans back into his chair and a smile slowly crawls on his lips. “Wait. I think I gotta Scream mask from a couple years ago and...wings! Sam—you still have those wings from the church play you were in, in fifth grade?”

“Somewhere,” Sam mumbles. “Mom?”

Mary glances up again and exhales a loud breath. “Dean, you’re too old to trick-or-treat.”

“I’m not eighteen _yet_ ,” he announces proudly. “I can’t be tried in the court of law as an adult. Therefore, I am young enough to trick-or-treat.”

She then looks to Castiel. “Are you sure he even wants to go?”

“I will join Dean.” Castiel glances to his friend. “I’ll do whatever you wish.”

A smiles spreads across his cheeks, and he slams a hand across Castiel’s back. “Now that’s the spirit. Now Mom—wings?”

Mary holds up the pumpkin and turns it to Dean, displaying a face that’s much darker and neater than the one Dean scribbled onto his. She then smiles and lays it on the table before studiously rising from her seat with a plainly forced smile, mostly directed at Castiel. “I’ll find them for you.”

“Sweet mother of pie, dude, this is gonna be awesome,” Dean murmurs. “Sammy’s getting a date with his girl, and I’m—” he pauses, eyes widening as he nearly slips off the front of his chair. Castiel quickly goes to lift him by the shoulder, like he had before—twice now. Dean’s eyes widen even further as he shuffles from Castiel’s touch. The electricity he feels in his fingers makes him flinch slightly, too, and they both offer overlapping apologies. Sam laughs heartily, and then Dean throws a marker at him. Castiel merely stretches his fingers, hoping the simultaneous fire and ice that touching Dean’s scar ignites fades quickly.

 

* * *

 

The last addition to Castiel’s costume Dean makes is a small disk with rings that weave into his hair. A halo, Dean calls it, though he must not have any concept of what halos truly look like. The same applies to the papery wings that hang on his back with straps across his shoulders.

“This is inaccurate,” Castiel deadpans as he looks himself in the mirror. Dean adjusts his halo slightly and ruffles his hair, a smile playing on his lips, although he’s clearly repressing a full grin.

“It’s supposed to be, I guess. Plus, this is short notice so of course it’s gonna be shitty,” Dean explains, then shrugs. “But hey—free candy.”

Castiel’s brows furrow because he could care less about candy, or any food he supposes. He looks at Dean in this mirror. He wears a black cloak with a tear on the sleeve, but the tone of the night seems like it might be intentional. The mask that apparently makes Dean’s outfit a costume hangs around his neck, obscured.

“And what are you?” he asks Dean.

“Ghostface, dude!” he laughs. He frowns when Castiel makes no sign of recognition. “Of course, you uncultured little angel—” he runs a hand across the fake wings fondly “—you’ve never seen the movies.”

Castiel shudders for no reason except that Dean’s close to him, just over his left shoulder. His hot breath hits his ear, making his whole body feel cold. “I have not,” he answers quietly.

“Knew it.” He reaches back and pulls the mask over the front of his head, revealing a ashen white face with a black mouth stretched open beyond any human limit. He stares through the eye slits directly at Castiel, and then holds up a bloody knife—obviously plastic—and presses it to his throat. “Scream.”

His tongue breaches his lips and Castiel licks them, nervously swallowing at the command. The plastic knife’s edge bobs with his Adam’s apple and—

“Dean! Cas! Time to go!” Sam shouts from the other side of Dean’s bedroom door, rapping his knuckles as he calls.

Castiel catalogues each moment between Sam’s interruption. Dean’s playful press of the knife against him hesitates and he drops it to his side. But back of his hand turns slowly, outlines his bare shoulder, since the plain white sheet tied around his body only loops over his right shoulder. His fingertips are smooth and uncalloused, light against his skin. Faster than Castiel can relish the touch, it is gone completely and Dean tells him to follow.

 

* * *

 

 

Brisk autumn wind blows through Castiel’s unkept hair. He’s vaguely aware that it has grown since he first took this body as a vessel, and he finds the growth of it quite peculiar. He understands his weak Grace giving him more human qualities but aging is more than a human quality. Where angels remain constant as an esteemed mountain, humans move and grow and _become._ Castiel is well aware of his origins and thought of himself as a pillar of justice, but his mere existence is as turbulent as the sea.

He is growing. He is changing. He is alive.

Castiel feels it in the chill that runs up his spine, and the strain in his arms when one of Dean’s neighbors deposits a small load of candy in his pillow sack at each new house. He feels it in the pounding of his heart when Dean walks beside him, so close that his bare elbow brushes against that sleeved one of Dean’s.

The sun has nearly set when Sam, who is donning a vampire costume—also _extremely_ inaccurate—announces that he is going to meet his friend Ruby. Castiel remembers the glimpse into Sam’s dream. The young and captivating dark-haired girl glowed brightly, and this memory intertwines with Dean’s perpetual teasing.

“I wanna meet your girl,” Dean says to him, lifting his mask. His cheeks are red and Castiel wonders if Dean is hot in his black cloak.

“She isn’t _my_ girl,” Sam mumbles around his plastic teeth. He grimaces and sticks his fingers in his mouth to take them out.

“Whatever. You are fifteen, Sam, it’s time to get a girlfriend.”

“And you’re almost eighteen—shouldn’t you have a girlfriend?” Sam retorted indignantly.

Dean reddens and makes a noise seated deep in his throat before flipping down his mask. His reply is muffled through the plastic of his mask. “Bitch.”

“Jerk.” Sam shoves the false fangs into his mouth and strides forward, the crimson cape flowing behind him.

Castiel finds the exchange curious. Dean keeps at his pace while Sam is a few strides in front of them, out of earshot. “I am...confused,” he tells Dean quietly. “Is the common practice of teenagers today to be in a relationship?” The idea does not baffle him. When he was on Earth in the first century, couples often married young. Most commonly young girls to middle aged men, which was morally ambiguous, but the common practice of the era. The twenty-first century, Castiel hoped, differed greatly in that area.

“Uh,” Dean starts, his steps staggered. “It’s kind of... a right of passage, for a guy, to get a girlfriend.”

“So Ruby is Sam’s first girlfriend,” Castiel says. “And you assert that he will fully achieve the status of ‘man’ by admitting to that fact.”

“Well, yeah, you can say it like that.”

“Under that same logic, Sam then believes that being _your_ age without a girlfriend is not—normal?”

“Not normal for me,” Dean says. “I—I kind of have a history of being a player.”

“A player?”

Dean audibly sighed and pulls his mask up, shedding the hood of his cloak so he can see Castiel. There is an exhausted expression on his face, tinted with amusement. “Man, you were really sheltered.”

Castiel considers this, and tilts his head. “You have no idea.”

A satisfied feeling bubbles in his chest when Dean genuinely laughs at this. “Well, I have been in a lot of relationships in the past...some of them were just, you know, one-time things.”

“With girls?” Castiel asks dumbly.

He doesn’t expect Dean to answer, softly, “Guys, too.”

Castiel nearly trips over his own feet at the admission, one that was—not expected. Homosexuality is inherent in a great number of humans, but for some reason Castiel had never pictured Dean as one of them. He hadn’t even realized that there was a heterosexual ideal that Castiel had wrapped around his friend.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Dean says quickly. “I—does that make you uncomfortable?”

“Of course not.” After having several seconds to process the admission, Castiel finds his steadiness. “I am not as shallow or weak minded to let that alter anything. Between us or otherwise.” He brings a hopeful smile to his lips.

Dean blinks and looks forward. “Good.”

The smile stays on Castiel’s lips and he can’t make his face relax. The unexplainable happiness is like a stain on his face.

“If you two are done, we’re here,” Sam says loudly without turning around. They have arrived at the mouth of an empty, fenced lot that seems to be formerly occupied by a _Biggerson’s_ restaurant. He recalls Dean mentioning his extreme anger at the fact that the Lawrence location had been closed down months ago.Sam pushes on the fence, pushing open an unseen gate that’s hidden by overgrown, dead grass and vines.

“Dude, this is a sketchy place to meet,” Dean says.

“We come here all the time,” Sam mumbles.

Dean’s whole body shudders at the thought. “Damn, Wonderland better be in here somewhere. Huh, that would make Ruby Alice.”

Castiel does not comprehend the reference but it causes Sam to turn around to give Dean a particularly raw and hostile grimace.

The building is overgrown with weeds and long dead grass. Some of it lays down flat from traffic, but it is so dry that the three pairs of footsteps make crunching sounds as they move.

Sam is the first to find a seat easily on a concrete block, and Dean raises his eyebrows before following. Castiel, however, remains standing next to Dean. He does not like the blocked in, secluded area, nor the darkness falling over them. As a strategist, it goes against all his instincts to make himself any more vulnerable by sitting. Despite any new sensation, any human inclination, he is and will always be a warrior.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks him.

The question goes without answer when Castiel waits several seconds, and he hears the crunch of dead grass again. His head snaps toward the gate, pale moonlight revealing three bodies moving toward them. Castiel’s body clenches when the leader them comes into his line of sight. He recognizes her immediately as the girl from Sam’s dreams, though she is surely not. With focus, Castiel sees the manifestation of darkened energy seep from the sockets of her eyes, her parted, red smiling lips, stretching from her fingers to create dark talons. None of which is perceivable by humans.

“Ruby?” Sam says, standing up. He looks between the two other demonic creatures, in grown male vessels on either side of her. “Who are you?” 

Castiel steps in front of Sam in an instant and pushes him back. “This is not Ruby.”

“Then who is she?” Dean demands, standing next to Castiel. He presses a hand to Dean’s chest and pushes him back—easily, to Dean’s visible surprise. “Cas, what’s going on?”

“Hello Sam,” the girl says, a mere few strides away from the three of them. She waves the other demons back. Her eyes slowly roll to look at Castiel. “Oh, lookie here. A real life angel.” She chuckles girlishly and cups her mouth. “Cute.” Her hand drops, all evidence of humor gone. “Now move,” she deadpans.

“No,” Castiel intones. “Leave now and you shall be spared.”

She looks up and presses an index finger to her chin. “Hm, no thanks. I had a date with my boyfriend and you two weren’t invited. Especially you, angel.”

“Cas,” Dean says lowly, leaning toward him. “You gotta tell me what I’m missing here.”

“She’s a demon,” Castiel says finally.

“A _what?_ ” Sam says, shaking his head. “No—you’re nuts.”

“Cas...” Dean agrees regretfully. “I don’t know about this.”

“You have to believe me,” Castiel tells them both quickly. “There are things, things that you don’t know about, things that want to _kill_ you. Sam, she is not the girl you think you know.”

“Stop spoiling this, they aren’t supposed to _know,_ ” Ruby whines. “I thought we were all on the same page here.”

What he cannot ask is something he has known all along—angels and demons have been working hand-in-hand to achieve the apocalypse, a means to an end that was long predicted.

This only reaffirms the fact. “Leave,” Castiel repeats. “This is the last time I will ask nicely.”

A burst of laughter fills the air, eerie and making Dean step forward a little more. “Dean,” Castiel warns lowly. “Don’t.”

“If you’re right, this bitch has been playing games with my brother,” he replies, ragged in tone. “And she wants to _hurt_ my brother.”

“I won’t let her.”

The promise hangs in the air along side the demon’s mocking laughter. Without a word, the other two demons move forward quickly with knives dripping through their fingertips out of nowhere. 

But, Castiel moves faster. His feet glide beneath him as he summons his blade and pushes it forward and into the first demon’s chest. He cries and withers, light crackling through his windowed eyes before he falls limp to the ground.

“Where the fuck did you get a _sword_?” Dean yells.

“Get Sam and _run,_ ” Castiel commands him instead of offering an explanation. From the corner of his eye, he sees Dean grab Sam’s forearm without hesitation. Dean actually listened to Castiel.

Ruby clicks her tongue and shakes her head and the other demon blocks their path.. “Nu-uh, boys. Sam and I still have a date. I have to get him ready.”

“You will _never_ touch my brother again,” Dean says. “I do _not_ approve.”

“Who are you, his mommy? It isn’t up to you,” she says with a smile. “Funny thing, destiny. Right, angel?”

“Stop calling him that, you bitch— _demon bitch_ ,” Dean growls.

“What, isn’t that _your_ pet name for him? It fits!” she laughs. Dean presses closer to Sam and frowns even more.

Castiel is tired of hearing her voice, and the demonic energy is so sickening in his sight. He throws his sword at the other demon and it lands in its skull, his handle protruding from its forehead as its body crumbles and his life force flickers. The sparks fly from the entry point, and Ruby can only smile and tilt her head. She should be more scared, having her reinforcements put down. She isn’t scared enough to be an average demon. Castiel circles her until he’s positioned directly between her and Sam and Dean. 

Her smiles drops from her lips, a pout forming to replace it. “Maybe we can hang out some other time, Sam?”

“I don’t know about that,” he murmurs back. He really does sound uncertain, and in pain.

She begins to recede backward. Castiel is prepared to go after her, but her body—her darkness—retreats into the shadows beneath her as if she were an ethereal being, or as if she were never there.

 

* * *

 

Castiel tried the best of his ability to explain the situation in the most vague of terms. He is not ready to admit what he is, or his purpose, but he madevery clear that his intentions are pure. The walk back to their house was filled with calm assurances that Castiel would keep Sam and Dean safe, and it was a promise to himself. Dean’s voice was frantic and high pitched, demanding to know of demons and their nature and what they want with _them_.

It’s a quiet suggestion, when Castiel recommends he direct these questions to their mother. He realizes soon after that the suggestion was a mistake on his part, because it demands a new round of questions he does not want to answer.

“You will know, in time,” Castiel tells them urgently on the porch.

Sam has been less vocal, seeming more and more depressed the more he spoke of demons bearing ill intentions and using vast forms of manipulation. “So Ruby was using me, though.”

“It’s unheard that a demon actually… feels.” Although his tone is dismissive, Castiel believes that he must give honest answers where he can. “It is possible that the demon possessed her because she was close to you. But it is unlikely, as the manipulation has been long planned.”

“What does that even mean?” Dean mumbles and rubs his face. Exhaustion strains through the concerned expression on his features.

“I said—”

“Yeah, you’ll tell us later.” Dean shoves past him and through the front door. Sam follows after, and they are both heading toward their respective bedrooms. Castiel decides to follow Dean, who’s slammed his door behind him. He disregards all common courtesy and opens the door.

“You’re supposed to knock, dumbass.” Dean is standing in front of his dresser as he peels off his costume. Underneath he’s just in his regular tshirt and blue jeans. He catches Dean’s reflection glaring at him.

“Apologies,” Castiel mutters noncommittally.

“Yeah, sure. Look.” Dean turns around, and then closes his eyes calmly. “You need to take off that shit before I can take you seriously.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and immediately shrugs the wings off his shoulders and lays them neatly on the desk in the corner of Dean’s room. He unwinds bits of hair from the halo and lays it on top of them. “Better?”

“Much. Now, can you tell me what the fuck is going on around here?”

“No. Not now.”

“Why the fuck not?”

It’s growing harder and harder to ignore the hurt in Dean’s eyes when he senses dishonesty. Castiel wants nothing but to give it to him, but his greatest fear is that knowing too much will kill him. Castiel looks at himself, a seraph who knew too much, and the actions that followed. Though he doesn’t regret his decisions, and accepts the consequences of knowing too much, he finally understands what humans meant when they said ‘Ignorance is bliss.’

 Castiel takes a breath, emphatically filling his words. “It isn’t _safe_ for you to know. Don’t you understand?”

“Actually, I don’t. Gods—demons—nothing makes sense anymore.” He sighs, voice heavy with concern as he jerks his head away from Castiel and walks toward the bed instead. He sits down on the edge and stares at his hands in his lap.

Castiel grimaces at how _lost_ Dean looks. Just an hour ago, happiness was played across those impish lips and something innocent speckled in his eyes. Castiel saw his own indecision and wandering reflected back as Dean looks up to meet Castiel’s eyes.

After a beat, Castiel decides to sit next to him. Their thighs brush as he sits, and he is vaguely aware that such a proximity is the exact sort that Dean has warned him about— _personal space._ However, there is no remote sign of objection.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he murmurs, and he means it. “I have tried so hard to protect you. Instead, I feel as if I have jeopardized you even more by—by making myself known to you.”

That’s where the problems began. When Castiel became involved. He inadvertently dragged Sam and Dean into the plotting as well.

“Instead of what? Stalking us?” Dean says, lines on his face deepening. “So you only came here because of us?”

“Yes, but do not be mistaken,” Castiel says quickly. “You and Sam are my friends. And I will lay down my life to protect you, and I always will.”

“Uh...wow.” Dean clears his throat. “Why?”

“Because I love you,” Castiel says without missing a beat, though Dean is visibly shocked by the statement. The answer is among the most honest he has given all night. “I have never known familial love, except that love I share with Ana—Anna. It’s different, what I feel for you.”

“Me? Or me and Sam?”

Castiel considers the question and finds himself reddening. He is reluctant to answer. “Both.”

Dean reacts to the simple one syllable word by leaning in, pausing a mere inch from Castiel’s face as if he is hesitating. It gives Castiel just enough time to gasp a breath full of _him—_ a thick, warm scent that makes his whole body shiver—before Dean’s lips are sealed over his own.

_Oh,_ is the only tangible thought his mind can summon before Dean pulls away. His eyes are wide, lips barely parted as he stares at Dean

“I’m sorry,” Dean mutters quickly and he wipes a hand across his lips. “You aren’t—I shouldn’t have done that, Cas, shit.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“Dean,” Castiel stops him, grabbing his forearm with forceful fingers. “I want you to do that again.” The confession is one that’s been stored away with the taboo thoughts and desires that come with each passing day, each day that he feels like he’s on the precipice of humanity. It’s one thing to fall, but to fall in love—and he’s now certain that the warmth, the insatiable _fire_ in his chest, is in fact adoration that goes beyond the human construct of friendship—with a human is beyond what he knows to be acceptable. But he finds strength in the hope Dean gives him, that his cause is just and that the fight he wages is not only for the Winchesters but for the entire human race. An entire species is not acceptable collateral damage for the angelic paradise that will be no paradise at all, if achieved through cooperations with demons.

Divine worries are crippled when Dean leans back in, more confident before, and presses his lips to Castiel’s. He can barely think about what he is doing, kissing a human, before his body’s sensations and longing adoration mingle as do their lips. Dean raises his hand cautiously to Castiel’s face and brushes his thumb down the length of his trachea while the others curl around his neck, cradling him closer. Their mouths press harder, changing angles and— _oh,_ he feels Dean’s tongue against the seam of his lips. He only barely whimpers when he lets Dean in, lets him explore while he drowns in the sensation of touch so intimate that he _knows_ he has done nothing to deserve it.

When they pull apart, it’s slow and hours could have elapsed, based on the thrumming of Castiel’s heart. He presses a hand to his own chest, shocked by its rhythm.

“Kissing is dangerous,” Castiel decides as he tries to command his body to slow. It obeys, with angelic coercion, but not as quickly as he would have liked.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, eyes twisted and puzzled. “I—I want you to know that you’d never be just a one-time thing.”

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, to Castiel’s dismay. “So how many times, then?” he asks timidly.

“As many as you’ll let me.” Dean presses another tender kiss to the side of his mouth, which was filled with affection that made the warmth flood his chest again, but lacked in the urgent intimacy the other kisses had. “I trust you, Cas. I trust you’re keeping me safe, but I need you to trust me, too.”

“I do,” Castiel says to him, nodding. “ _Trust me_ that you will know everything eventually.”

“Okay,” Dean concedes, taking a beat to grab Castiel’s hands. Wordlessly he lays down, simultaneously pulling Castiel along with him. They lie close this time—not _almost_ touching. They are actually flush against one another, Dean curled against Castiel’s side as he maneuvers so that he’s breathing into Castiel’s neck. He kicks off his shoes only using his feet, and then drapes an arm over Castiel’s chest.

Castiel’s first thought is how compromising this position is. And his second is his own fascination at the fact that he absolutely doesn’t care. 

 


	7. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then you should let me get dressed,” Castiel suggests with a smirk. “The way you look at me like this isn’t an incentive to expedite the process.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Just to let you all know, there is a 99% change that there will be no updates during the upcoming week. I will be out of town July 6-13th with limited internet access. Sorry! To keep yourself occupied I recommend you read some of my other works! I have some fun one shots and even a few longish fics.

 Castiel does not even realize he is asleep until he hears a fumbling noise from the other side of the room. It sounds like something hard colliding with metal—followed by a flurry of curses. Frankly it is a rude awakening, as his body is ripped from a numb, relaxed state. Eyelids heavy, he tries to open them, but drapes his forearm across them instead. 

Tentatively, he raises his tired limbs—mentally, he supposes, since his body cannot truly experience exhaustion—and stretches the tendons and feels bones crack.

Then, belatedly, he responds to the stimuli that woke him: he rakes an arm across the side of the bed and feels a little warmth on the tangled sheets, but no body.

“Dean,” he says, his voice rough and thick with sleep.

“Shit, I’m sorry I woke you up,” responds Dean from the other side of the room. Castiel leans up on his elbows and blinks. Dean is halfway into his trousers, hair disheveled and dress shirt wrinkling as he shoves it into his pants once their buttoned. “I mean—you need to get up, but I’m sorry I didn’t set my alarm.”

“School,” Castiel realizes. He sighs and throws back the remainder of the covers. In the night, the sheet he’d worn as his costume had come untied at the shoulder. As he sits up it falls down his chest and settles at his waist.

“Dude—it’s gonna—” Dean says suddenly as Castiel stands. The sheet falls to his feet, nothing holding it up. Air is touching every inch of his skin, except the genitalia which is covered by cotton briefs. He has no qualms about being like this, immodest and open.

In fact, he feels a foreign rush from his palms to his toes when his condition causes Dean to blink maybe a dozen times. There is only an itching thought of _yes_ when he feels Dean’s eyes drag across his form.

“I think Mary was going to wash my uniform,” Castiel says, staring down at himself to see if there is any particular reason Dean stares at his body aside from it’s partial nudity. He’s never really looked at this body unclothed. He tilts his chin forward, mental aspect flush against the space between the tips of his collarbone. He sees the swath of dark black hair—thin, but stark against his pale chest—traveling down his tummy, and thickening as it dives down the V of his navel. His curiosity is stunted by his undergarments, so he looks back up to Dean.

His face is flushed red, freckles standing out as his eyes gaze everywhere but Castiel’s face.

“I think mom washed your uniform,” Dean says, regurgitating Castiel’s statement in the same tone that he said it in. He quickly turns and exits his bedroom, leaving Castiel alone in his underwear. The room is still covered with darkness, beside the faint morning sun filtering through the closed blinds. With a flick of his wrist, Castiel spreads the blinds and drinks in the sun, and sighs.

The door to the bedroom opensagain and Castiel bothers only to peer over his shoulder. Dean is frozen in the doorway, an unreadable expression crossing his eyes. The sun catches on them even though he’s mostly in the shadows. He thinks that the sunlight may be reflecting off something. In his arms is a folded pile of clothes, which, once he’s snapped from his trance, Dean lays on the foot of the bed.

Dean exhales deeply and turns his head toward the door.“I’ll let you get dressed,” he mumbles.

“You don’t have to leave,” Castiel says quieter than he intended. “I am not embarrassed by you seeing me like this.”

“Well, did you think that _I_ might be embarrassed?” Dean retorted. “I don’t want to see you in your tighty-whities.”

“My what?”

“Like—you’re practically naked, Cas,” Dean says exasperatedly.

“But I’m not,” he points out. “The human body is a natural thing, Dean. In fact, isn’t customary for... _involved_ humans to be familiar with his or her partner’s form?”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Involved?” he repeats, then shakes his head. “ _Partners?_ ”

“Yes,” Castiel says, eyebrows furrowing. “After last night I thought...are we not...” Castiel searches the wealth of knowledge he possesses, trying to find the accurate word to fit. He lands on one tentatively, one he warmly remembers that Dean’s subconscious used to describe their relationship once upon a dream, “boyfriends?”

Before him, Dean gawks and visibly swallows. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Castiel says without hesitation and steps toward Dean. He bristles when Castiel quickly invades that thing he once called ‘personal space’ which, for all Castiel cared, was eliminated the moment their lips touched. All remnants of that boundary, which had gone unspoken of for quite some time anyhow, dissolved when Dean pulled Castiel against his chest and breathed him and murmured his name like _he_ was the prayer to be made.

Despite how afraid Dean looks, he’s the one who raises his hand to Castiel’s neck. His fingertips drag across the skin until his palm rests on top of his sternum.

“I just don’t want you to do anything...with me...unless you really want to.”

Castiel snorts. “I do everything upon my volition, Dean.”

This makes Dean sigh, and then smile. “Okay. So no coercion...because I really don’t want to stop being your friend, mess this up, and then end up friendless."

“You won’t lose me,” Castiel replies softly. He conceals the frown that is crossing his face by leaning into Dean. This is a hug, when he buries his face into Dean’s neck and wraps his arms around Dean’s torso.

A few seconds pass before Dean wraps his arms around Castiel too. It’s a tight hug, no space between them. Dean makes a noise and pries away. “I—I would love to see more of...of this,” Dean gestures to Castiel’s form. “But right now I _really_ need you to put some clothes on. We—we’re going to be late.”

Castiel knows they are not going to be late. His internal clock, so to speak, tells him that they could leave in twenty minutes and still fall within Dean’s normal morning routine. He concedes silently, however, to Dean’s request.

“Then you should let me get dressed,” Castiel suggests with a smirk. “The way you look at me like this isn’t an incentive to expedite the process.” Dean hums, savoring Castiel’s appearance one more time before falling completely out of Castiel’s embrace, walking backwards. He bumps into his desk before deciding to swivel on his heel and exit the room.

Without lifting a finger, Castiel is dressed and the pile of clothes on the bed are gone. In the time it would take for a human to dress, Castiel unfurls his wings and blinks—

He is in the warehouse where he can usually find Anael. Light shines through the banisters, lighting the dirt ground. She is not here, he realizes quickly, and tries to call for her as softly as he can on the same frequency she reached him on before.

“Castiel,” she says, voice thin and tired. She stands before him, looking all the same except that her vessel’s red hair sticks up in random directions.

“It has been a long time. Are you alright?” he asks with concern. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs. “I’ve been looking for Pestilence.”

That must be why she has left him alone all this time. Castiel wishes he had been helping her instead of…playing house. “ _The_ Pestilence, I’m assuming. Have you had any luck?”

She nods. “I found his home office, basically. It’s a nursing home—stewing with the worst diseases you can possibly think of. It’s disgusting.”

“Are you going after him alone?” he asks her.

“I can handle it. He’s no match for an angel who can’t get sick.” She frowns. “You, however, can. You are so... _hopelessly_ fallible to all these human weaknesses.”

“I recall you longing for such fallibility, Anael, or do you forget telling me how you planned to fall?” Castiel retorts bitterly.

“There comes a time when you have to put your wants, even your perceptions of right and wrong, aside for the sake for the cause,” Anael says with a sigh. “In any case, we will end this war once and for all, I promise you that. But first I’m going to get Pestilence’s ring.” She steps back and closes her eyes. “You should return to your humans.”

With a flap of her wings, Anael is gone and the bitter echo of her words leaves Castiel reeling with a twinge of pain he is not familiar with. He identifies it as shame, as guilt. He is ultimately useless, because he has lost so much power, so much Grace. He was able to protect Sam and Dean the night prior, but he did not vanquish the threat entirely. That, in itself, is a failure that he did not acknowledge. Now he does, and it’s a self inflicted anger that makes his whole body burn.

 

* * *

 

 

In lieu of standing alone and standing alone and stewing in his bitterness, Castiel returns to Dean’s bedroom. There is a knock at his door just as he arranges himself with a brief swathe of angelic energy.

“You ready to go, Cas?” Dean’s muffled voice comes from the other side of the door. Castiel mumbles a confirmation, and the door opens. Dean is properly dressed and clean, Castiel notes. His hair is gelled and his skin has a glow that comes when he uses a certain type of moisturizer. He would never admit to using skin product, but he does, and it happens to be quite beneficial to his appearance. Just as Castiel begins to appreciate the good Dean’s lip balm does, a smile pulls at his lips. “Wanna take a picture?”

Castiel blinks. “Hmm?”

“It’ll last longer,” he says coyly and then throws a glance over his shoulder. “C’mon. Sam’s a bit spooked after last night and I think I wanna take him out for a breakfast burrito before school.”

“You mean Mary does not want to drive us?” Ever since Castiel revealed himself to be an angel, Mary has insisted that she drive the three of them to St. Michael’s every day.

Dean shakes his head, smiling. “No, I’m driving. Apparently she had a friend in Topeka she had to go see today. Heh, I didn’t even know she had friends outside the PTA.”

Sam fumbles down the stairs tiredly, and his eyes lock on Castiel, and then slowly moves his eyes to Dean’s.

“Good morning Sam,” Castiel attempts with a small smile, but his greeting comes out sounding far more pitying than he planned.

“Yeah,” Sam mumbles. Dean purses his lips and claps a hand over his brother’s shoulder. “Come on, kid. I’m taking you to Mickey D’s.”

Sam follows Dean and Castiel into the garage and they all climb in the van. Dean quietly, so that only Castiel can hear, apologizes that he’s going to put him in the backseat. “Normally I’d give you shotgun but...little brother, you know.”

Without smile or frown, Castiel nods. “I understand.”

The warmth he felt that morning has, for the most part, dissipated. He thinks of the gravity of everything that happened last night, thinks of the brokenness written across Sam’s features. While the younger Winchester had his heart broken by a demon, the older has agreed to be Castiel’s boyfriend.

Which is completely ridiculous and so entirely juvenile. That is a _human_ construct, one that he is not ready to give into. He may feel human and enjoy being human, but the moment Lucifer is defeated and the traitorous angels are, hopefully, stripped of their Grace, he will leave this vessel. He will ascend to the heavens and all his earthly desires will shed like a skin without use.

Although it saddens Castiel, it’s a matter of fact. He loves Dean, but the feeling of being _in_ love is just a product of chemicals and voluptuous emotions. He doesn’t want to feel them any longer, not when it clouds his thoughts and judgment.

“Cas, you okay?” Dean asks, and Castiel sees his green eyes flick upward into the rearview mirror.

Castiel nods.

Even his eyes look doubtful. Is Castiel that transparent? “Alright,” he murmurs, staring at the road once more. “Uhm, what about you Sammy? Feeling up for a ice cream cone, too?”

Sam stares out the side window, elbow propped against it as his hand cradles his chin. “In the morning?” he deadpans.

“Never too early for ice cream, Sammy.”

“Yeah, it is.” He shifts in his seat, reaching into his pockets to retrieve a pair of white headphones, which he plucks into his ears. Castiel hears the thrumming of music, so loud that he’s certain that Dean can hear it too.

In response to Sam, Dean flips on the radio and heaves a sigh. Castiel listens to the song, immediately recognizing the chorus. He tries not to think of a sweet voice in his ear, breath on his cheek, as the guitar follows.

 

_In a tree by the brook, there’s a songbird who sings_

_Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven._

 

* * *

 

As soon as Dean pulls his car into its parking place, Sam throws open the door and marches off to school, backpack in tow and headphones still covering his ears. Weakly, Dean tells him to have a good day, and Castiel’s chest twists as he watches Dean’s face fall.

“He’s an idiot,” Dean mutters to Castiel as they both climb from the Impala. He leans against the side, arms crossed as he stares up into a clouded morning sky. Unwillingly, Castiel’s eyes follow. He has developed a sore habit of consulting an absent father—God—by looking upward. According to humans, Heaven is in the sky. Little do they know that, in a sense, Heaven is all around them. It is neither up nor down; it is parallel to everything in Creation. If Dean only knew that the closest thing to Heaven is him; if Dean knew, would he fear Castiel? Would he quiver in the presence of an angel. _Do not be afraid,_ they were always told to say, when angels appeared to humans. To Dean, he is still human—yet, Dean still treats him with utmost respect, more so than some of his subordinates from his garrison. Than Anael, as of late.

Castiel wants nothing more than to be his equal, yet he knows that it is an impossibility, so he lets the thought dissolve as quickly as it came.

“I don’t know what to do, Cas.” His voices croaks, and Castiel hears that his throat is swollen. He looks to his side, to Dean, and finds a pair of green eyes looking back. They are read and puffing up, swollen, and shining under the morning sun. Tears, Castiel realizes, and his heart drops into his stomach.

Uncertain how to approach Dean’s emotions, he tilts his head, soft and sympathetic. “There is so much for him to digest. You must only be there for him.”

“His girlfriend—she’s a—demon?” His eyes beg for confirmation.

“Yes, she is.”

“And,” Dean stammers. “Are you some kind of, I don’t know, spy? Hunter?”

Castiel’s eyes widen. He realizes that claiming to be a hunter of demons would be the perfect cover story, for the time being. The lie is easy to tell, but he decides to nod. He doesn’t want to say it outloud.

“My life is fucked up right now,” Dean groans and wipes the sleeve of his dress shirt across his eyes. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything,” Castiel mutters.

“I,” Dean starts, glancing to him and then looking away. He clears his throat as his cheeks flush a deep pink. “I kinda wanna kiss you right now,” he admits.

It is difficult to hide how excited the admission makes him, makes him gasp ever so quietly as he subconsciously moves closer. “Will that make you feel better?”

“Not really,” laughs Dean. “But I want to—only if you want to though.”

This morning, Castiel would have said yes in a heartbeat. After Anael, perhaps unintentionally, disintegrated his entire angelic authority by suggesting that his friendship with Sam and Dean made him _weak_ , he is more doubtful. He wants nothing more, in this moment, than to explore Dean’s mouth like they had the night before. He wants to hold Dean, perhaps unfurl his wings and tuck them around Dean’s form as well. He wouldn’t feel them, but Castiel would envelop him in every way.

Dean is beautiful, even when he’s upset. Even though he truly wants Dean to smile, smile against him, he cannot ignore the growing realization that he is becoming distracted. Anael is right: he is hopelessly fallible.

“Not now,” he replies to Dean quietly and refused to look him in the eye.

“Oh, that’s fine. Some other time.” Dean swallows, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his khakis. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

The homeroom class they share with each other is more quiet than usual. Usually it is Dean filling the quiet spaces between Castiel’s thoughts with chatter. Some of it’s mindless, but most of it has shed light on Dean’s persona in one way or another. Castiel does not have a good sense of when an atmosphere takes an awkward tint, but he can rationalize that Dean is far too withdrawn.

It is probably because Castiel rejected his pursuit. He had to, though; he is losing focus on the matter at hand. He needs to get the Horsemen’s rings and _stop_ Lucifer. He isn’t here to make nice with humans. In fact, his presence has probably endangered Dean even more. Now it’s too late for Castiel to withdraw, to remove his supernatural presence. Sam and Dean know too much—and it’s _his_ fault.

He feels the blood drain from his face, a terrible reaction to the terrible feeling stirring in his stomach. He glances at Dean in the desk next to him and he feels his mouth turn downward. Something else churns within him—an unbearable pain that only tortures him in the metaphysical sense.

“Dean,” he says quietly.

Either he did not speak loudly enough or Dean ignores him and continues staring down at a notebook in front of him. The bell rings and Dean does wait for Castiel to rise from his seat before they walk out of the room together. They part wordlessly at the corner of the hallway, and Castiel fades into the cluster of students. Once the anonymity consumes him, he is able to close his eyes and will himself elsewhere. Anywhere else.

 

* * *

Angels do not run, especially from things as trivial a human.

Castiel attempts to shake that frame of thought; he decided long ago that humans are not trivial, especially not Dean. Perhaps a more appropriate word is _tedious_ —and still it’s not humanity that tries him. It’s the emotions.

He feels an aching sensation deep in his chest, one he identifies as guilt. He’s felt it long ago, before Earth had truly blossomed and there was war between angels. It is the pang that he felt when he buried his blade into his brother’s chest during the heat of battle.

The sensation is more like a constant burn now, rather than a short-lived spark seated inside his ribs. It tells him that he shouldn’t have been so coarse with Dean, that he should of kissed him when he asked. Of all the things Castiel promised to himself, he promised to be everything Dean needs. But he cannot, because the fear of his need for _Dean_ is too strong. He’s terrified that if he slips an inch, he shall fall a mile—and even Anael can see he’s falling.

It’s evident in these intense emotions that cause his once unwavering strength to become sparse and erratic, doubt filling him beyond the realm of mere faith. He doubts himself and his motives. He _wants_ to fall, almost, and that’s the most blasphemous thing of all.

God made him this way. He remembers what he told the pagans only a few weeks ago, that God treasures humanity and only wishes angels to learn from them—to become them.Castiel does not want to make any assumptions on God’s behalf anymore than he already has. That is the root of the war that has stirred in Heaven and now on Earth. It’s why he’s in this mess.

Castiel stops his hiding by find refuge in the warehouse, its metal paneling reflecting echos of the beat of his wings back to him. Sigils hum, but it barely breaks in silence that makes his muscles _tight_ and uncomfortable.

“Anael,” he calls out, because she has always been a source of comfort. She understood, once, this feeling of being torn between two of God’s most sacred realms. Though, her fluttering about has resulted in a streak of pessimism, and she reverted fully into a soldier. He hears another pair of beating wings behind him and he turns.

“Good, you’re here,” she says and approaches him quickly. Castiel barely registers that she is going to grip his shoulder, until she does, and she carries them both on an indeterminable wave of celestial energy.

It takes longer than usual for Castiel to regain his footing once they land. He brushes the wrinkles from his sweater vest as his sight spins; Anael is already piqued and aware, taking in their surroundings.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Anael tells him with a bland yet urgent voice. Castiel blinks; they are on a street of a small town. It’s midday but the streets are void of life. There aren’t even cars driving about, as Castiel might expect, so he must assume that the town is deserted.

“What is going on?” asked Castiel. “Weren’t you hunting Pestilence?”

Wordlessly, Anael sticks a hand into her shirt and retrieves a chain that’s strung around her neck. On it hang _two_ rings.

“You got his ring,” he whispered, amazed. “How—”

“It was disgusting,” Anael injects, lips curling. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then what are we doing—I _sense_ something is wrong with this town…”

Anael snorted, shaking her head. “At least your angel senses aren’t completely daft. I was hunting Famine— _the_ Famine, as you would assume—and I...I can’t do it by myself.” She shifts uncomfortably. “My vessel...is rendered useless.”

“And you think that I can handle the task any better?” Castiel murmurs in question.

“You are more integrated with your vessel. Perhaps you can actually control it.”

“And what is _it?_ ”

Anael tucks the chain back into her shirt before raising a finger to a building on the other side of the street, behind Castiel. It’s a Biggerson’s restaurant, a chain that Castiel is very much familiar with. Automatically he feels a throb of need deep in his gut. Irrationally, he can _almost_ taste dry hamburger meat on his tongue, soaking his teeth and his _gumbs._

“Do you feel it?” Anael asks him.

Castiel nods. “It’s hunger.”

 

* * *

 

Demons are everywhere, Castiel discovers when he and Anael go into Biggerson’s. The town must have been completely infiltrated, to make way for Famine himself to consume it and its citizens. Inside, many customers stuff their faces and devour their greasy meals like animals; in some booths, couples devour each other with biting kisses that make Castiel wince and burn at the same time. He forces his mind his mind not to think of his lips being covered like that, teeth grinding and tongues smashing. _No._

But his stomach does growl, and the hunger begins to extend into his fingers. One, just one, he asks Anael but she sternly shakes her head no. He can see her struggling as well, slightly crippled by Famine’s power, but she is more resilient than Castiel at the moment—or at least he thinks so. He can’t stop thinking about Dean’s sweet kisses and hamburgers smothered in cheddar cheese. Both sound equally appetizing.

They sit together in the restaurant area for a while, sipping on iced water and focusing on holding back the onset of hunger that only grows worse by the minute. By nightfall, Castiel would be content with eating his own hand if it meant getting red meat on his tongue and his _stomach—_

“Castiel, focus,” Anael whispers to him and he is snapped from the trance. His hand is trembling a few inches from his mouth. He was actually going to bite his hand, he realizes with a surge of disgust. He slides his palms beneath his thighs, sitting on them. “Just a few minutes and we—we can get this over with.”

“Good,” he breathes hoarsely.

Just as Castiel rises from his seat to refill his drink, an employee—no, a demon disguised as one—comes to him and informs him that the restaurant is about to close. Castiel nods solemnly and sets down his water on the closest table. Innocently, he flicks his wrist and materializes his angel blade, and then quickly submerges it deep into the chest of the demon. The light flickers in its eyes before it quietly plunges the floor.

Anael is beside him soon after the demon then lay crumpled, and she points behind the cashier’s counter. A few demons appear and grumble as they attack, but together, Castiel and Anael quickly silence them and make them writhing corpses on the floor. God bless their hosts’ souls, may they rest in peace.

In the kitchen, they find Famine. He’s a weak old thing with a respirator and a suit that’s just as dusty as his gray skin. _This_ is the almighty horseman of famine, Castiel thinks. If a withering old man caused the unquenchable hunger in his stomach, then he cannot imagine this being at full strength, full power. Anael told him that Famine had been feeding off souls of residents. Souls are eternally strong, and one could give the weakest of men strength beyond compare. Two, three, even four souls could match an angel’s power.

“Oh…” Famine wheezes as two demons—much more well dressed—come up beside him. He raises a wrinkled hand, halting their motion. “No. Angels...may come.”

Castiel’s fingers flex around the hilt of his blade and he keeps his arm stiff, ready to strike.

“No need...for your sword...Castiel.” The sound of his name on those lips makes a chill run up his spine. He does not lower his blade. “Very well,” Famine goes on and looks to Anael, and then lets out a long, harrowing chuckle. “I know what _you_ need.”

“Shut up,” Anael stammers and approaches him. “I need your ring. You can either give it up or I will rip it from your cold, dead fingers.”

“I...I think,” Famine murmurs. “You’re all bark...no bite.”

“She bears the rings of two other horsemen,” Castiel tells him lowly. “Your brothers.”

Castiel’s words cause a spark of anger to ignite in dead eyes and he raises a hand. Invisible fingers wrap around Castiel’s throat and he feels his toes lift and he’s dangling above the floor.

Anael begins to murmur enochian verbal patterns he’s not acquainted in, something old that causes the invisible fingers to run cold and Castiel falls back to the floor.

“You know our spells,” Famine accuses.

“I know a lot of things.” Anael’s face twists and she goes to strike the demon on Famine’s left. Castiel follows her lead and buries his blade in the other demon’s chest. They cry out and smoke tries to filter from between its teeth but then retreats, and light flickers in its eyes before the demon is finally a corpse.

“You shouldn’t listen to her,” Famine says, and Castiel looks up. The horsemen is looking directly into his eye. He clicks his tongue, his empty stare nearly reprimanding. “If you only knew what she craved.”

Castiel does not listen to him. He’s as good of a liar as any demon, but he doesn’t miss the disturbed expression on Anael’s face. She flexes forward, defensive. “Give me the ring,” she demands, in the same echoing tone which has commanded hundreds of angels into battle.

He raises his arm, slowly and with great struggle, and extends his fingers toward them. From his fingers flows black smoke—smoke that seeps toward the ground like a heavy fog. A wind blows and the smoke torrents up and around Castiel’s shoes, his legs, and soon his entire body. Anael says something, but it’s an ethereal murmur. He’s vaguely aware that the fog is playing with him, triggering his Grace—he knows this because light is filtering through the fog and it’s coming from his mouth, his eyes.

“You want _so much_!” Famine cries out, laughing with a perverted sort of joy. “So human!”

Castiel’s Grace is weaker, and it’s drained by Famine’s intrusion. He struggle’s against the fog’s hold, but it only grows stronger. It occurs to Castiel that Famine is _feeding_ off the withering power of his Grace. He cannot _break free_. As he panics, something that is, in fact, too human for comfort, the fog fills his thoughts. It summons memories, memories of warmth and cool breath against his lips. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought a Reaper itself was in his midst, but the ghostly breath is soon replaced by the sensation of phantom lips— _warm_ lips—against his own. It anchors him, makes his entire body feel fire. The fog disperses for a moment, from shock, fear perhaps—and then it’s bind closes around him even harder.

_“I trust you, Cas. I trust you’re keeping me safe, but I need you to trust me, too,”_ Castiel hears, a whisper of a memory that he longs to grasp for. He falls into it, the sensation of fingers running across his jaw, his neck, and the touch of foreheads.

“You _want..._ the little human,” Famine says, and it’s more like a whisper in his mind. It’s a loud voice over the sound of Dean’s, a cold grip dividing Castiel from the heated, merciless memories.

“I don’t want him,” Castiel whispers, and it’s Dean’s fingers in his hand that takes over his senses now. As a winged creature, that moment was entirely grounding. And he lets the feeling bleed into his fear, his vulnerability—and his Grace dulls until no light emulates from him. “I have him.”

_I hope._

Like lightning, the fog flees from every inch of cortical space within, Famine’s cry of pain followed by an enraged, feral growl. Castiel gains his footing just in time to see Anael lunging forward with the sharpest side of her blade and severing Famine’s head from his shoulders. Castiel knows that its only a vessel and decapitation will only inflame him—

As Famine’s head rolls onto the floor, Anael also severs both of his hands at the wrist.

Efficient.

Wide-eyed and panting, Anael finds the hand with the ring and frantically pulls it off.

“Do you have it?” Castiel asks and is surprised that his voice is still strong after being drained of his energy—his Grace. “Did you get the ring?”

She looks up sharply and holds up a clenched, bloody fist. “Yes. Now come on.” She slaps a hand on his shoulder again, and this time he’s relieved because he isn’t sure he could have flown himself. Anael falls into Castiel once they land, body crumpling against him like her body is giving out.

“Anael?”

“I’m fine,” she says, gasping. “I just—Famine was stronger than I even anticipated.”

“What...what effect did he have on you, exactly?”

Her mouth works, soundless words forming on her lips but she shakes her head suddenly, solemnly. “It is no matter. He’s subdued, for now, with the ring in our possession.”

“Stop dismissing me as if I’m a child,” Castiel says sternly.

“You aren’t acting _as_ a child would,” she replies coarsely. “You _are_ a child—have you not seen your body? And you think you’re in love with a human whom you swore to protect?”

“A millennia of being an angel does not evaporate when I take a vessel. An existence filled with blood and betrayal and eternal _turmoil_ does not eternally deprive me from the right to be happy?”

“We don’t get to be happy!” Anael exclaims.

“Angels?”

“ _Soldiers,_ Castiel,” she drawls, summoning her blade into her fist for emphasis. Castiel takes a step back, cautious. “Remember what you are? What _we_ are? We were made to fight. You charged yourself to step away from the battlefield, to protect the Winchesters—a mission so sacred I was certain you would approach it with the utmost care.”

“And I have!” Castiel snaps back. “You do not even know their location. I have _protected_ them with every fiber of my being.”

“You have grown too close to them,” Anael says. “Namely, Dean Winchester.”

Castiel nearly summons his own blade, but quickly recognizes the violent spark as something human—but not childish. “I make my own decisions. Free will. It was something you once spoke so fondly of.”

“You chose to make one of the most important humans to ever walk the earth your little play toy—and you question _my_ motives?”

“My motives are pure. I love Dean and Sam Winchester. I would die to protect him and his brother. This, human vessel or not, you cannot take away.” Castiel narrows his eyes. “Now start treating me as you once did, Anael, or I will find other means to stop this Angelic conspiracy without your help.”

The threat, despite Castiel’s doubts, affects her. She backs down, her blade stowed and the grimace on her face turning to regret.

“I will let you continue down this road,” she says solemnly. “You are not a child. You can make your own decisions—and to possess that ability, you are above fortunate.”

Castiel still regards her defensively, but pauses for a moment to look up. There is a bigger picture, he reminds himself. A world without fire and brimstone—a world where Dean is not the corporeal slave of Michael. “If I can be assistance in your search and acquisition of Death’s ring, you know how to contact me,” he says quietly, and then spreads his wings, gone before he can hear any more. Frankly, listening to Anael is growing tiresome. He has other matters to attend to.

 

* * *

 

Night has fallen by the time Castiel arrives at Dean’s house. In an effort to avoid any residual tension, he forgoes knocking on the door—he just goes to Dean’s room. He remains under the veil of his Grace, though, so that he is invisible. It is likely that Dean doesn’t want to talk to him anyway; Castiel made him angry by denying the kiss, he’s sure. What is eternally frustrating is that Castiel would take it back now if he could, but is too say so or attempt to make amends.

Dean is laying back on his bed, neck cradled by a pillow as he holds another to his chest. His chin is propped on top, his eyebrows furrowed as he stares down the foot of the bed. He also is wearing those ungodly large headphones, through which music loudly plays and murmurs in the otherwise quiet room.

Castiel does not like the downward curve of his lip, the paleness of his skin or the sadness of his eyes. He idly wonders if this is his own doing, and then comes to the solemn conclusion that his disheartenment is indeed the product of Castiel’s own… doubts. If he is so human, as Famine said—as Anna says—then he is entitled to such doubts. After all, the most blasphemous doubt of all was of God’s plan for earth. He can only hope that by saving two humans—and, by extension, humanity—he is preserving God’s will rather than contradicting it. He’s playing by ear, as they say. He’s taken a leap of faith...as they say.

Dean groans, breaking Castiel from his reverie, and rolls onto his side. He pushes his headphones down around his neck and the music stops momentarily. He picks up his cell phone, which is laying on the nightstand, and stares at the screen for a prolonged duration of time.

“Screw it,” he says to himself and begins to dial. The moment he presses the phone to his ear, Castiel feels a vibration deep in his pocket. He reaches in to pull out the phone that he forgets he has most of the time, and silences it. The ringing must have stopped on Dean’s end, because he lets out a miserable sigh and closes his eyes.

“Cas, if you’re listening,” he says into the phone, and Castiel is reminded of the talking message system that is present on cellular devices. “I want to say I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did to piss you off. Maybe we went to fast. Maybe I screwed things up—which is probably the case, but I wanna make it right. I thought we were good, and then we weren’t and I just need you to know—” An abnormally blaring ‘beep’ sound comes through the phone and Dean growls in response, in frustration. He tosses the phone to the foot of his bed. “I need you here, Cas. I don’t know why,” he murmurs to nothing, to no one except himself. “But I do.”

Castiel feels a swell of vivid warmth in his chest, and he wishes he could let Dean knows he hears him. That he was listening.

Without hesitation Castiel slips a hand back in his pocket and feels for his cell phone. He types out a message slowly, making sure he does it correctly.

Dean, please meet me in the park across from school. I want to talk.

He sends the message, and waits patiently. A few moments later, Dean’s phone buzzes and he grumbles as he maneuvers out of his lying position to retrieve it. Castiel watches his face carefully as he reads the text message—feels a flare of hope when Dean’s eyes close and he presses the phone to his chest. He knows enough about body language to know that Dean is relieved, and so Castiel allows himself to breathe too.

 

* * *

 

He hears Dean’s approach in the form of quieted footsteps. Castiel tenses on the park bench when Dean falls into the seat beside him. He’s closed off, arms woven across his chest and ankles knotting together and protruding in front of him. The term ‘putting up a front’ comes to mind, which almost amuses Castiel because Dean once talked about ‘fronting’ and Castiel was sure it had some sexual connotation.

Castiel angles his body so that he’s half facing Dean. He feels a chill come over him, which disturbs him. He’s disturbed each time he identifies a human characteristic. He doesn’t fight it though, but allows instinct to rule his actions: he pulls the collar of his jacket to the cleft of his chin and blows a hot breath against the fabric, which blows back in in face.

“You wanted to talk?” Dean says, tilting his head toward the sky, refusing to make eye contact.

“Yes. About this morning.” Castiel pulls out his phone and sets it on the bench between them. “And your talking message.”

Dean shakes his head, smiling softly. “Voicemail, it’s called a voicemail.”

“Regardless, Dean, you did nothing,” Castiel begins, and moves a little closer on the bench toward Dean. He flinches at the invasion of his space, and moves away only slightly. Castiel feels wounded and his face may show it, so he pulls back. “This is all so new to me. I believe we did move to fast.”

Dean groans as he wipes a hand over his face. “I knew it—damn it, Cas, just tell me that you want to hit the breaks. You know, instead of giving me the silent treatment.”

“You were truly worried that you were at fault,” Castiel realizes.

“Hell yeah, Cas, I was ‘truly worried’! Man, you don’t get it. Before we were ever...this...you were the best friend I ever had. You _are_ my best friend and—and I know we haven’t known each other that long, but if you weren’t here I—shit, I don’t know what I’d do.” Exasperation fills his voice, and he clears it from his throat with a gentle cough. “That was too much.”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, Dean. Don’t be afraid to tell me anything. I meant what I said yesterday.” He allows himself a smile smile. “I love you. We have...very different upbringings, but I assure you that when I say it I mean… all the things you just told me.”

Dean’s eyes widen, and he licks his lips. “Are you asking me to say it back...because I don’t—not that I don’t but I don’t know if I do...shit, I need to be quiet.”

“I don’t need to hear it. Nothing has changed, or will ever change.”

“Okay,” Dean breathes in relief. “Alright. So we’re...we’re good?”

Castiel risks sliding closer to him again, but he doesn’t move away this time. Instead, Dean’s eyes go soft and he leans close; his warm breath tickles at Castiel’s chin as he leans down. Castiel reaches to touch his face, hold his jaw as they mutually let their lips collide. It feels like the first—like how he wants each kiss with Dean to be: slow and burning, filled with a warmth that slithers down his throat. The warmth, the love, is like it’s own self-sustaining Grace—it weaves between his ribs and infiltrates the pounding organ in the center of his chest.

Suddenly Dean’s fingers have combed through his hair, tugging and pulling him closer until the seam between their mouths seems to be inexistent. Despite himself, Castiel whimpers and lets his hand fall from Dean’s cheek to his neck, using it for leverage as he pushes closer.

Grunting, Dean pulls away and Castiel hates the absence of that inexplicably heavenly warmth and claws back to him, but Dean presses him back by the shoulders. “Cas, Jesus, we’re in a park. Don’t mind PDA just...not that—not that much,” he pants, shaking his head before pressing one last kiss to the side of Castiel’s mouth. The spark of his lips satiates the need only for a moment. “You kiss like a fucking pro, you know that, right?”

“You’re the only one I’ve ever kissed,” Castiel answers, voice cracking. He licks his lips, eyes still narrow and dark and needy. “But I’m glad my...talent pleases you.”

“Just stop talking,” Dean whispers in a helpless plea. “Let’s—let’s go back to the house. It’s about time for dinner and my mom’s still out of town. Gotta cook for Sam, you know?” Dean laughs and gets up. Castiel clears his throat and smoothes the wrinkles of his shirt before standing behind him. The entire walk back to Dean’s house, Dean watches Castiel from the corner of his eye, and, if he’s not mistaken, there is dark stare in them that rivals his own.

 

* * *

 

That night, Dean quietly invites Castiel to sleep in his bed again. Although Castiel has no qualms about the closeness that comes when sharing a bed—the warmth pressed against his back, his arms, his legs—Dean emphasizes that cuddling in bed doesn’t fall under the description of ‘taking it slow.’

Since he does not sleep, it’s easy for Castiel to remain on his side of the bed. But in his sleep, Dean wanders, and ends up throwing an arm over Castiel’s chest and pressing his face into his neck. A brief brush against his thoughts indicates that Dean is in a deep slumber. Moving away shouldn’t wake him. It is better this way, to distance himself from the new temptations that haunt him. He does not want to scare Dean or ignite some unwarranted guilt because their bodies are pressed against each other.

Castiel rolls carefully from the bed, and Dean lets out a subconscious groan in protest. He remains fast asleep, though, and soon rolls back over to his side of the bed. Castiel pulls up the veil around his body and toes through the house and down to Sam’s room.

Sam has been quite absent as of late, ever since the incident with Ruby. He is familiar with the saying ‘the first cut is the deepest’ and Castiel thinks it may either apply to heinous methods of torture or first love. Or both. Some might argue that love within itself is heinous, like the angels would say about Castiel’s love for Dean. The invasion of insecurity into Castiel’s thoughts shakes him, and he forces them from his mind as he approaches the side of Sam’s bed.

Even in sleep, he looks miserable and tired. Castiel exhales pitifully, reaches a hand down to Sam as he lifts up his veil again as to not burn the boy with his Grace. He touches Sam’s cheek, feels the stickiness of sweat that’s present on his skin.

Then, he suddenly jerks in his sheets. Castiel recoils and quickly makes himself unseeable again. A nightmare must be blossoming in Sam’s mind, Castiel thinks. That is something he can fix.

He focuses his Grace, although it’s weak and filtered through a foggy lens, into deeper into Sam’s thoughts. He hasn’t been able to dream walk in over a month, but this is different than mere curiosity. This is worry, and concern. He peers past the barrier of Sam’s mind briefly. Immediately he’s met with a sensation more miserable and morose than he expect—a terror in his dreams. Castiel touches the thoughts, expecting them to fade or blossom into light, but his touch is not working.

He tries again, finding a stream of blood weaving through the forest of Sam’s dream world. He touches his fingers into it, and the part he touches turns to water. The purity begins to spread, to envelop the scene around him—but then a bright flash of thunder and it’s all consumed again by unparalleled darkness.

The inability to heal the blemishes in Sam's dreams is not the result of Castiel's weakness. There is another power, infectious and dark, at play here.

The contagion of fear begins to wrap itself around Castiel, pinching at his ankles. Lucifer, his mind supplies; he knew the angel of light had inverted, but he sorely underestimated the megalomania, the horror of his power and manipulation. Cries ring out, deafening cries, and it takes the majority of energy he has charged to remove himself permanently from the nightmare.

Once he’s regained his footing, Castiel realizes that Sam is crying, murmuring, “please, don’t, no” in little incoherent breaths. Sam should be safe here, with all the sigils and specialized banning on the house. A moment of panic arises in Castiel, and he drops his veil again even at risk of exposure. He does what, as he can recall, has never been done. A house is a wavering structure that is only as sturdy as the beams. But the human body, however, is self-sustaining and more durable than one could even imagine.

A deep breath, and Castiel presses both of his palms to Sam’s stomach. He infuses the little energy he has left with pure, blind will and emits fiery burns straight through Sam’s skin—not leaving a mark there—and into the marrow of his ribs. He jerks away as soon as Sam’s cry meets his ears, then he hastily returns to Dean’s room. Before Dean even hears his brother’s scream, Castiel is tucked beside him again, safe on his side of the bed.

“Sam?” Dean mumbles, and then another cry erupts. “Sam!” He jumps from the bed and breaks into a run. Castiel slowly throws back the comforter and just sits upright on the bed for a moment. Marking warding sigils on Sam’s ribs was an extreme decision that he hoped wouldn’t have to be made. Lucifer knows where he is, but the marks will ward of the dreams. They will keep him sane, until Castiel can...end this.

A few moments later, Castiel decides to walk to Sam’s room to see if he is alright. Once he’s there, his heart drops at the sight of Dean holding Sam against his chest and rocking, lulling him like a mother would her son.

“Are you okay, Sam?” Castiel murmurs into the darkness, crossing the room and turning on a lamp. He sits beside Dean and rests a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Sam?”

“I’m okay,” he says. “It’s just—it was so real.” He sniffs, and it’s evident to Castiel that he’d been crying. “I don’t want to go back to sleep.”

“Does it hurt?” Castiel asks quietly, a question that makes Dean turn his head.

“It—it did. Just for a second. I dreamt that he tore open my stomach and pulled...pulled everything out for me to see.” Sam squeezes his eyes shut. “It felt so real.”

"It wasn't real, Sam," Castiel tells him, voice dropping into a firm commandment. "Whatever he told you, it was a lie."

Sam visibly tenses, his mouth taking a hard line as if Castiel had peeled back his skin.

"How did you..."

Dean licks his lips, eyes narrowed and keenly thoughtful as he looks up to Castiel from Sam. "Cas, does this have to do with demons?"

From the corner of his eye, he sees Sam's fist clench into his bedsheets, and then he shuts his eyes tight.

Castiel curtly shakes his head.

"Cas," Dean says with a glaring warning.

And there inlays Castiel's greatest weakness; although always a soldier, a strategist, he has never allowed himself to wear blinders. He sees the pain and suffering around him, the devastation that his own kind have wrought upon humanity. He sees two humans who have slid past all his defenses, and he can no longer deny that theyare his greatest weakness.

The pregnant silence is interrupted when Dean says his name again, prodding Castiel from his reverie. "Cas, he's my brother," he murmurs mournfully. "I need to know how to protect my brother."

Castiel cannot deny Dean the ability to protect his own.

"Then, I will teach you."

 

* * *

Just on the other side of the barrier of trees, Castiel hears the howling of machines gliding down the highway. As he leads Sam and Dean deeper into the wooded area, the sounds of motors are replaced by the sound of water ebbing at a riverbank. Sun barely filters through the trees above, but Castiel refused to show the brothers anything until the sun rose.

"Monsters," Castiel explained, "are ever-present in the night." While Castiel admits he dramatized the existence of other supernatural beings in the Lawrence wilderness (frankly, monsters should know better than to make residence in the town of one of the most renowned hunting legacies in the world, retired or not) but it was an excuse to persuade Sam and Dean to get some more sleep.

Bags still hang beneath Sam's eyes, but he is aware. There is a flare of resilience in his eyes. Dean, on the other hand, is firm yet casual, eager and anxious to learn.

Once Castiel decides they are not being watched, he pulls his angel blade from the back of his pants.

"Holy shit—Cas—" Dean fumbles, eyes widening at the sight of the slender, blade.

"This weapon is, essential," Castiel says slowly. He steps away from them, a careful distance, before rolling the blade's handle in his fingers. He tosses in the hair, an extraneous maneuver. He may be showing off. Then becomes more serious, lunging toward a tree and pivoting his hips.

The tip of the blade sheaths itself in the trees midsection with ease.

"Whoa," Sam manages, eyes widening as Castiel pulls the blade out with a backward thrust of his arm.

"Where did you learn to do that?" Dean takes a few strides forward to examine the tree. His fingers brush over the bark, only marred by a small hole—evidence of the blade's sharpness and Castiel's precision.

"It's how I was...raised," Castiel explains for lack of a better explanation.

"So this is a family thing?"

"Yes." It's not the biggest lie he's ever told.

Dean nods, musing a hand through his own hair. "A family full of demon hunters. Sweet. Does that mean Anna is one, you know, too?”

"We have been working together to eliminate the threats that haunt your destines, yes." Castiel wipes the particles of the tree on the leg of his pant. "This blade can kill demons; however, it can kill something something much more powerful, too."

"Like what?"

Castiel meets Sam's eyes for a moment, then back to Dean's. "Angels."

 


	8. Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “New Orleans,” Anael murmurs, making sense of the salty nature of the atmosphere.
> 
> “This is where Death will be in four days time," Gabriel tells them noncommittally. "Forget Katrina, it’s...there won’t be a state of Louisiana next week."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of updates last week! Like I told y'all in the last author note, I was out of town :) Enjoy this update!

Sparing any incriminating details, Castiel tells them everything. Nearly. He tells them that angels exist but are no longer subject to God's wrath, because God is gone. There are factions, most that are under the rule of the Archangels. They are the ones who have been calling for the blood of Man—who want the apocalypse to continue as prophesied.

They are disturbed when Castiel throws around words like 'apocalypse' and 'angelic possession', which works to Castiel's advantage, he supposes. If he can convince Sam and Dean not to trust angels whatsoever, it's all for the better. Castiel trusts no one, save Anael, and they should feel the same. Doing this also means it will be critical in keeping his angelic nature a secret. Sam and Dean's implicit trust relies on that fact.

"What do the angels want with us? Why are they working with demons?" Sam asks tersely.

"Because," Castiel starts, realizing quite quickly that the truth would ultimately hurt them—Sam should not know that he's an abomination and the vessel of Lucifer, nor should Dean know that it's his divine destiny to murder Sam, at least by virtue of Michael's wrath. "Because you two are the keys to the apocalypse—stopping it." The apocalypse won't occur without their permission, so it's partly true.

"And they want to kill us before we can," Dean murmurs.

Castiel considers this and nods, deciding that it fit his lie.

"But—Cas, in my dream, he said things," Sam says, looking down.

"What did he tell you Sam?"

"Said I was a freak. Said that I was just like him, and that's what made me special. He said we were the same." He sounds miserable at the admission, like he believes the words.

Dean winds an arm around his brother's shoulder. "You aren't any of those things—whoever that dick head angel was, they don't know anything."

"It was Lucifer," Castiel. "Lucifer is the only one who can invade your dreams, Sam."

"The freaking devil was in my brother's head?"

"Remember: he is merely a fallen angel. A powerful, angel, yes, but he is known as the King of Lies."

"He promised he'd never lie to me." A beat of silence, because Castiel wonders if that is actually the case. Lucifer would have no reason to lie to Sam, because the truth is damaging enough.

Castiel sighs, shaking his head. "And that is the greatest lie of all."

"Okay,so how do we gank these motherfuckers? With a blade?" Dean says as he lets go of Sam. "What if they're in our heads?"

"There are ways to protect you from angels projecting themselves into your mind—which I will take care of myself." While Dean's asleep, Castiel notes to burn digits on his ribs as well. The effect they had on Sam seemed to be enduringly painless, yet Castiel cannot even sense him. He raises his angel blade and flips it so that he's clutching the opposite side, not hard enough to cut himself. He pushes the handle in Dean's direction.

Dean's eyes raise to meet Castiel's, deep and warm as his fingers wrap slowly around the handle. Their fingertips brush slightly as Dean clutches and Castiel lets go, the warmth crackling up his wrists, into his arms, and down his spine like electricity conducting through him.

A weight drops heavy in Castiel's stomach as he realizes that he has handed a human the one item on the planet that is capable of murdering a angel. Dean holds the scythe that could easily erase him from existence. He could shove that blade into Castiel now and he would cease to exist.

But that moment never comes.

Innocently, Dean weighs the blade in his hand and then grips the handle. He stabs it through the air like one would use a hammer, and then pivots on his heel to spin around. Castiel cocks a smirk, amused by how much of an amateurhe is.

"Dad taught me how to shoot, but I've never used a knife."

Castiel nods as he watches Dean's movements. He is sloppy and uncoordinated, but he has potential. He doesn't ever lose his balance. "The key is using it as an extension of yourself," Castiel tells both Sam and Dean. "You command it, as you would your arm or leg."

Dean makes another attempt, tightening his movements and tightening his grip on the blade. He takes two steps forward and pivots his hips—Castiel catches his breath as Dean lowers his arms and then sharply brings his dominant hand up. He diagonally slices the tree just as his body reaches it's original degree of rotation.

Castiel approaches the tree and bends down so that his eye is level with the point at which the blade came in contact.

Sunlight dances through the incision, deep and thick. Castiel feels a swell of pride that he does not show on his face.

"Again," he says, stepping away from the tree. Dean repeats his motion, altering the alignment of his body so that he can yield more momentum. Through Castiel's critique and commands, he does not lose the gleam of determination. It seemed the ferocity of a true hunter pulses through his veins, the same blood that pumps through Sam's.

 

* * *

Several hours pass and Dean's growling stomach seems to be an indicator that they are done practicing for the day. Both Dean and Sam are now comfortable enough to handle a blade if the event ever arose that Castiel was incapacitated to defend their lives. After all, he only has one blade. Still, that didn't forbid them having a knife of similar length to carry with them should the angels grow desperate enough to recruit other monsters. Castiel makes note to find blades composed of silver, since that is the element that generally weakens things of supernatural nature.

When they go back to the house, Mary's minivan is sitting in the driveway.

"Mom's home!" Sam says excitedly and takes off for the door, leaving Castiel and Dean in the dust. Dean takes a second to pause and exhale, his breath steaming the air. Castiel mirrors him and shoves his hands deep in the pocket of his coat—a trench coat that'd he bought when he realized that humans would grow suspicious if he did not show signs of being cold.

"Is Sam going to be alright?" Dean mutters into the quiet, sounding uncharacteristically helpless.

Castiel bows his head. "I sincerely hope so, Dean," he replies earnestly. "The skill you demonstrated is hopeful."

Modestly, Dean shrugs his shoulders and laughs. "Well, thanks. You know, can be honest with you about something?"

"Always."

"When I first saw you, and I mean it—the moment I laid eyes on you at orientation—I thought you were kind of...not weak, but, scrawny. And not in a bad way! You are tall and lean and you just had this really passive vibe. Christ." Dean runs a hand through his hair like he's floundering. "Please don't be offended because I don't know how to talk like a human being."

"I'm not offended." Castiel looks down at himself briefly. "If you did perceive all those things about me, I never felt like you treated me any differently." He finds his lips pressing together in annoyance. "Such as your friends, like Ace. He was an ass...butt."

Dean gives him a pointed look. "Assbutt?"

"Yes, assbutt," Castiel says seriously and huffs a breath.

Dean's mouth spreads into a smile and he throws an arm around Castiel's shoulder. The contact is unexpected, just like the soft kiss Dean presses against his shoulder. Even with all the layers of fabric—curse clothing—Castiel feels that spark where Dean's lips touch him. "Don't ever change, Cas. You know that I don't associate with any of those assbutts anymore. I didn't like the way they treated you, like you were different."

"But I am," Castiel reminds him, as if it weren't obvious.

"Doesn't matter. I never liked no one picking on Sam, and when I see someone needing protection—well," Dean laughs. "Let's say being a protector is kind of my thing. But, my point is—I was wrong, Cas. I was so wrong." He bites down on his lower lip, rolling it between his teeth for a moment before leaning forward quickly to peck Castiel's lips. It catches him off guard, the rough texture of Dean's chapped lips, the warm breath that mixes with his own. "You don't need my protection, you never have."

Their foreheads press together and Castiel closes his eyes for a few seconds. "I was wrong, too," he whispers back.

 

* * *

Mary has dinner prepared already once Castiel and Dean go inside. Sam is already devouring what seems to be a hamburger. Mary looks up from the sink and in their direction the moment Dean's footsteps sound in the hall leading to the kitchen. Her eyes meet Castiel's and she regards him with narrow eyes, which soon fade and a smile greets her face.

"Dean, Castiel," she says and wipes her wet hands on the legs of her pants. "You boys look hungry." She looks at Castiel again.

"Starved," Dean says, but instead of going for the platter of burgers on the kitchen counter he crosses the kitchen and throws his arms around Mary. Her eyes widen at the sudden affection that Dean gives her, but soon enough she wraps her arms around him and presses a kiss to his cheek. "I'm glad you're home."

"Me too, baby," she says to him. "I didn't plan on being gone so long, but I had to help an old friend."

"Now all we need is dad back, and today'll be perfect," Sam mumbles with a mouthful of food.

"I'm afraid your father won't be home until after Christmas," Mary says morosely as she lets go of Dean, whose mouth hardens.

"You're kidding."

"Dean, don't be angry with him," Mary pleads. "It's not the best situation, but he's doing right by us, by me. Once he's back, he'll be back almost the entire year."

Dean huffs and shakes his head dismissively as he grabs a burger and goes to sit beside Sam. "So he says."

"Dean."

"Cas, c'mon, man, get something to eat," Dean tells him tersely before shoving the burger past his lips.

Castiel does what he's told, ignoring the glare that Mary gives him when he picks up a bun and meat. "Thank you, Mrs. Winchester."

She sighs heavily and leaves the kitchen without a word.

"Dude, I don't think Mom likes Cas," Sam murmurs.

Dean rolls his eyes and chews. "Too damn bad."

After that, Dean was far from sociable, which did not bother Castiel in the slightest. However, there was a murmur in Castiel's mind that told him that Anael wished to see him. He places a hand over Dean's shoulder. He flinches at the contact, and so does Castiel; unknowingly, he's touched the place where he burned Dean with his Grace. Castiel's breath catches, his grip tightening, and Dean's mouth works around words he cannot bring himself to say.

"I have to go," Castiel manages, swallowing hard. "I must meet with Anna.”

Dean nods. “Alright.” Castiel lets go of them and they both inhale in unison. “Uhm—uh, will you come back over tonight? You know, you’re welcome...stay the night again.”

“I will,” Castiel answers curtly, thought pattern disrupted when Sam clears his throat abruptly.

“Can you guys...get a room or something?” Sam mumbles to himself, staring down into his plate. His face is tinged red, even the tips of his ears, which peak through his thick brown hair, are pink.

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean replies tersely. He must kick him underneath the table because Sam replies with a resounding, ‘ _ow!’_

“I’m sorry if you are uncomfortable with the… _profound_ bond I share with Dean,” Castiel tells him earnestly. His intention was to comfort Sam but he seems to be even more embarrassed than before. In addition, Dean throws a glare his way.  “This conversation is  _over_ ,” Dean declares and stands up. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

Castiel rises from his seat and follows right behind Dean to his front door. He briefly looks over his shoulder as his hand pauses on the handle. Castiel’s eyes follow, and he notes that they are alone. When he looks back to Dean, he sees hardly anything before their lips touch lightly.

“See you later,” Dean says quietly and opens the door.

Crossing the threshold, Castiel smiles and looks over his shoulder. “Goodbye, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

Afternoon becomes night when Castiel heeds his sister’s call and finds himself standing inside an immaculate cathedral, in the aisle between two church pews. The only light inside comes from the numerous candles—probably beeswax, based on their potent thick smell—hanging in the archways. At the front of the long corridor, a crucifix hangs and in front of it are bricked tiers with old candlestick melted on top, some of which still make an attempt to burn. There is also some moonlight that pierces through the windows, small and sparse, high up above the cathedral floor. Otherwise, it is quite dark and ominous. But this is a house of God, one that Castiel knows of very well.

The Cefalù Cathedral specifically was erected to pay homage to the archangels. Up above the pews, a mosaic of flesh tones and beige, of blue and crimson, depict Michael, Raphael and Gabriel flanking Mary. It isn’t the most extravagant cathedral in Rome, but Castiel’s always admired the way the humans painted on the angel wings: they were extravagant things, patterned black and white as if they were this boundary between light and darkness, life and death. If only they knew angels had black wings, like carbon feathers drenched in night.

“Castiel.” He bows his chin from the mosaic and turns to the direction from which his name was called. Anael is behind him, placid and cool when she lets a small smile drift to her hips. “How have you been, brother?”

“Not well,” he replies morosely. He had managed to amend relations with Dean, a cause for elation, but numerous threats still lingered over him. When not with Dean, and frankly distracted from the stresses (though not from his duties), everything seemed a little more hopeless. “I went to Sam during the previous nights and began to walk his dreams. While I did suspect he was having a nightmare, it became more and more apparent that Lucifer was trying to influence his mind.”

Anael’s eyes widen, smile dropping from her lips. “And what happened? Are you alright—you know we are as susceptible to death alive as we are when we dreamwalk,” she reminds him tersely.

“I exited his dream, and I carved warding symbols into Sam’s ribs. Now no angel, not even me, will be able to track his whereabouts. I intend to do the same to Dean while he sleeps.” The back door to the cathedral swings open and a gust of winter fall slams into Castiel, and he shivers slightly, causing him to shove his hands deeper in his pockets.

Anael nods curtly and waves a hand, beckoning Castiel to follow her. She only leads him a few rows up the cathedral and then takes a seat. Castiel sits beside her, finding himself looking up again at the images wrapped around the ceiling. In this house, there angels abundant—yet, they are invisible. Perhaps, as the saying goes, they are hiding in plain sight.

Castiel presses his palms together and twines his fingers together. The edges of his nails dig into the top of his hands as he tightens his grip. It’s what humans have done for centuries, when voicing their prayers. From these very pews, Castiel has heard pleas to an absent God, wishes made to uncaring angels. He only wishes that he could have known what he knows now—sooner.

“You called?” comes a voice from beside Castiel. He opens his eyes, having not even realized he closed them, and turned to see Gabriel sitting nonchalantly next to him. It occurs to Castiel that Anael had called on him not for closeness, but to meet with Gabriel. Castiel straightens his posture and narrows his eyes.

“That depends,” Castiel tells him, throwing a speculative glance. “Have you decided to help us?”

“Geez, in case you haven’t noticed I am helping you,” Gabriel says with a smile, but it does not reach his eyes; in fact, he is most certainly glaring at Castiel. He stands up, and looks toward the ceiling, eyes trailing across the mosaic. “This depiction of me, with the wicked black and white wings, has always been my favorite. Even though the ‘Annunciation’ wasn’t really that big of a deal. It was an errand.”

“Jesus Christ was the most important prophet to ever be born,” Castiel deadpans.

“He didn’t even prophesize—”

“Are we going to talk about our long-absent father's whims or get down to the brass tacks?” Anael interrupts sharply, standing up as well. Castiel remains seated with his brows furrowed, watching Gabriel glower at his sister.

Gabriel sniffs. “The brass tacks being that I don’t really want to be here?”

“To give you credit, you have been helpful. You told me and Castiel about the rings, got one for us even.” Anael tilts her head slightly. “We should be grateful. It’s hard to do, given you abandoned your post in heaven. Got tired of being the middle man.”

Castiel even senses the rift between the two angels. Anael’s expression is as cold as the air around them. Gabriel rustles, cocking his head as his glower thickens. “What are you getting at, Anael? You should be grateful that I don’t smite you here and now for the fun of it.”

“Anael,” Castiel breathes, eyes widening at her complete disregard for self-preservation. He places a hand on her shoulder, a touch that she slinks away from with a scornful look Castiel’s way.

According to his fears, Gabriel is not tolerant of Anael’s irreverent words.“You could do that, but then you’d just be smiting the only opportunity to redeem yourself. With Michael and Lucifer out of the picture, you could restore heaven. Raphael would not challenge you, not alone. You could make the other angels listen rather than creating a civil war!”

Gabriel faces the front of the chapel, hands gripping tightly around the pew in front of them. “Maybe I didn’t make my intentions clear. I don’t want to kill my brothers. I don’t want power, I want everyone to get along. But even I can see that God had a purpose for humans existing. God cast Lucifer down for a purpose. Who am I to question His will, even if He’s a no good deadbeat? But Michael’s taken it too far. There’s no reason to burn the world when God’s gone.” Gabriel works his mouth, then decidedly slapping a hand both on Anael and Castiel’s shoulder.

A breath of humid air washes against Castiel's face, starkly hot compared to the temperature of the cathedral. He can nearly smell the salt of the ocean, wafting down the busy sidewalk which the three angels stand on. Unnerved people march blindly march, like ants, overtly misguided yet unaware of the darkness looming over them. Castiel can feel the buzz, the fear. He turns his head, and his thoughts clarify when he sees an ocean of reapers lining the streets. Cars and people by the dozens walk through them each second, a strong and immovable force.

Reapers only gather at times of great tragedy. Genocide and war and natural disasters, that's where the neutral beings converge.

This city is a convergence.

“New Orleans,” Anael murmurs, making sense of the salty nature of the atmosphere.

“This is where Death will be in four days time," Gabriel tells them noncommittally. "Forget Katrina, it’s...there won’t be a state of Louisiana next week."

Castiel's breath hitches. "Then it's time for us to confront Death?"

"Yep."

"And you're sending us in blind? Without a hint on how to kill or coerce him?" Anael demands. "It's like you want the final and most important part of this plan to fail."

"If I had a 'Killing Death: For Dummies' book, I'd happily let you check it out from my personal collection. But the fact of the matter is I don't know how to take him down. God didn't make him, he's older than dirt—so I sure as hell can't unmake him." Gabriel pauses. "But if you can get that ring from him, and the incantation that'll open the door to the cage, then you...you could stop this."

"Without it we won't," Castiel says. "The apocalypse begins with New Orleans."

Castiel says this to Gabriel, but he turns to face the archangel fully and he seems to have evaporated into the southern smog. His mouth grows dry, and he looks up; a brief spout of rain splashes across his face as a gust blows in from the ocean. The sky is speckled with white clouds now, but miles away, a storm brews with mite unseen by Man since Noah.

Except humans have no arc, only the loyalty of two fallen angels.

 

* * *

 

Anael tells Castiel that the safety of the Winchesters is the most important thing, during the final stretch—the last days before the fate of the world is determined. Despite his objections, she insists Castiel goes back to the brothers and watch over them. 

It isn't as if he has other priorities beside watching over them. He and Anael had gathered three of the four Horsemen's rings, which, according to the elusive and somewhat-helpful archangel Gabriel, would open the door to Lucifer's cage—with the right incantation. Lucifer had already taken a vessel, though not his perfect vessel, and was already wreaking havoc on the Earth. Splayed across the newspapers that lie on Dean's kitchen table (undoubtedly belonging to Mary) are headlines detailing hurricanes and untimely blizzards, tornadoes and earthquakes. It hasn't escaped Castiel's notice that there is a hundred mile radius between Lawrence, Kansas and all these natural disasters. Even the livestock deaths have halted, a sign of demonic activity swaying, too.

It would be a good sign if Castiel wasn't sure the angels had taken their place. The only safe place was within the Winchester household, where he'd bled to ward off his brothers and sisters. But that doesn't mean that angels are not simply circling Lawrence and biding their time.

They want Dean, or more specifically Michael wants Dean—which reminds him of the second and unsolved problem at hand. There was no way to cast Michael into the pit along with Lucifer unless he takes an earthly vessel. And he will not take a vessel that is not a perfect match; his patience is legendary.

Castiel does not think, given that he has demonized angels in Dean and Sam's presence, either of them will say yes. However, as a strategist, he knows that manipulation will be key. And there is no bond stronger than that of the Winchester family. They could easily be coerced into saying yes, if it meant saving someone they love.

It's not shameful or weak, Castiel reminds himself emphatically. It's only human. He would do the same.

But there must be another option to dispose of Michael, an option that would spare Dean. Perhaps, if he cooperates, Death will know.

 

* * *

 

The weekend is nearly over and Dean is very anxious to go back to school. He mentions that there are several assignments that he forgot to do, which seems to stress him in ways Castiel cannot understand. For instance, the page-long assignment their biology teacher gave them was tedious, so Castiel completed it with a wave of his hand. However, he hadn’t considered that the assignment might actually take Dean time to complete. He offers to do Dean’s assignments for him, to which he avidly declines. Dean Winchester is an independent young man, Castiel learns. There is a glow, a burst of pride in his chest that Dean does not want to get by on the haunches of another, so to speak.

Sunday night, however, Dean does request that they study together. Dean starts by pouring his books onto his desk and then slouching down in his desk chair. While he’s turned around, Castiel summons his backpack—which, as of a few seconds prior, was in his locker at school—behind Dean’s laundry hamper. He thinks Dean isn't watching when he goes to retrieve it.

"I didn't see you with your bag when you came in," he tells Castiel curiously. Still facing away from Dean, Castiel has the opportunity to close his mind for a brief moment of thought.

He turns back around with a small smile. "You aren't the most observant person I have ever met."

Dean frowns and crumbles up a sheet of paper, and then throws it at Cas. It hits him harmless square in the chest and they both laugh as Castiel drags his books over to the desk. Somehow he situates himself comfortably between Dean's legs, a textbook cradled in his lap as he leans his cheek against Dean's knee.

"You got your bio stuff?" Dean asks, his voice breaking slightly as Castiel cranes his head to look up at him.

"Yes, I do believe you could work on your recall of the integumentary system."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. “I failed that last test, probably because we learned that crap around—when Ruby—you know."

A flare of hot anger and worry flashes through Castiel, but he only presses his lips right. "I understand."

"You know what I don't understand is how you never do anything in class beyond what the teacher assigns, and I never see you do homework unless I ask for a study partner, but I'm pretty sure you get perfect scores on everything," Dean rambles on. "Sam's like that, some kind of genius. Even with everything, his nightmares you know, he's probably still going to go to some big prestigious school."

"Sam could do anything," Castiel agrees, albeit a little sadly. Castiel could hardly see a future beyond the coming days. All seemed a little hopeless.

"But what do you wanna do?"

Castiel's brows furrow and Dean presses a hand against his shoulder. He maneuvers Castiel from the floor and into his desk chair, while Dean sits on the edge of his desk. "What do you mean, Dean?"

"I mean, like, college," he rushes out. "We're seniors, you know. Deadlines coming up... You gotta have an idea."

"Do you have an idea?" Castiel counters.

"I have been scouted by KU and a few other state schools, because of soccer. Won't have a real idea until the seasons over. I'll sign with on with whatever school gives me more money." Dean shrugs his shoulders. "But you didn't answer my question."

"Because I do not know—I have always strategized each move, each step of my existence. But, as of late, I have been preoccupied."

"Saving a couple high school kids?" Dean laughs.

"Among other things," he replies vaguely, eyes trailing down Dean's face. His gaze lingers on the boy's lips, and Dean suddenly licks them so that their shiny and wet. He's also getting closer, and Castiel feels an odd cold sensation crawl up his spine, like anticipation.

"You like being distracted, don't you?" Dean's voice is a low, secretive murmur. "Like not knowing what the hell you're doing, where you're going."

"No, I hate it," Castiel replies, nearly growling. "I hate not knowing, but if you're there..."

"Yeah?"

"I've grown too close to you, Dean," he confesses. "I have neglected things I never would have. I rationalize I'm protecting you. I may be, but it's so selfish, Dean. I do not know when I became so selfish."

Before he can murmur another word, Dean's lips cover his. And that's all this particular kiss is, something soft and chaste. Its purpose may simply be to quiet his worries, but it does so much more. Deans hands cradle his cheeks, minutely deepening the kiss.

"It's okay," Dean says against his mouth. "To want, selfishly. I do."

That is all Castiel needs to hear, and be scowls as he leans up to take lips again. He takes and takes, following some primal instinct as he licks past the seam of Dean's lips. With each breath they share, Castiel finds himself breathing in fragments of Dean's soul, magnificent and pulsing with an affection that matches his own. His Grace, already having a myriad of web-like cracks, burns hot in his chest and breaks again, latching onto Dean's soul and fading like a hot ember submerging in the Black Sea.

This, Castiel decides, is what it feels like to truly fall.

Dean gasps against his lips and pulls away, igniting a burst of fear—fear that Dean could feel them colliding like two dying stars—in his chest. His Grace weeps and his eyes flash open as Dean pulls away. Dean is looking toward the door, terrified and saddened all at once.

"Sam—I can explain," Dean says quickly sliding off the desk and toward the door.

Realization strikes him; Sam stands in the mouth of the doorway, eyes dancing with shock as he looks between Dean and Castiel.

"Is that what you guys do up here every night?" Sam deadpans.

"Not every night," Castiel clarifies. "Most nights."

"Cas," Dean growls, and the emotion is clear: be quiet. He looks back to Sam, apologetic. "This," he starts while motioning between himself and Castiel. "This is really complicated."

Sam snorts. "You think?"

"Jesus," Dean mutters and wipes a hand over his face. "Cas—he's special to me. I'm sorry you found out this way, but we're a—you know."

"You're dating."

Dean shuts his eyes. "Yeah."

Sam stares at the two if them for a long, pregnant moment. He then sighs, shaking his head. "I knew it."

Dean's eyebrows raise. "What?" 

"Yeah, you two stare each other like lost puppies. Both of you," he says emphatically, pointing his gaze at Dean. "As long as you too aren't loud—"

"Hold on, Sam. We aren't—we haven't—done anything."

Sam scoffs at that, angling his body like he is about to leave. "Alright. Look—I'm happy for you guys, but I don't need to see anyone's tongue shoved down my brother's throat. Or my best friend's." Shuddering he walks out the door. "Or both!"

Dean heaves a frustrated sigh and walks over to close the door.

"That could have gone worse, I guess." Dean saunters toward his bed and tiredly falls onto the mattress. "Sam knows that I like guys, but—I don't exactly have relationships."

"What constitutes a relationship? You told me once that you frequently had intercourse, is that not a relationship?"

Guiltily, Dean sits up and gives him a shy look. "Yeah, but those relationships didn't mean anything. I just did it for gratification, you know?"

Castiel nods. "So, without sexual intercourse, this is still a gratifying relationship?"

"Cas, what are you getting at?" Dean asks him and pats the area on his bed next to him. Castiel quietly gives in and goes to sit next to him. "Talk to me."

Words fail to form, at first. Humanity has been difficult for Castiel to grasp, though he finds himself accomplished because he _has_ learned much. He prides himself in being normal enough to live among the creatures his Father loved so dearly. Now he is with Dean, _they are in a relationship,_ and at every step Castiel wants to prove that this is not a role he simply plays. He wants to experience, and some strange part of him lives to please Dean, in whatever manifestation the boy wants pleasure.

"I don't know how to do this. I know I want you but I'm inexperienced in so many ways, you can't even imagine."

"I don't need anything from you, Cas," Dean says, his voice embodying warmth and makes Castiel feel hot. "Nothing you haven't already given me, which is a hell of a lot."

Castiel feels as though he hasn't done much for Dean, beside his duty. It began as a rather selfless mission and has spiraled into Cas needing touches he never knew in Heaven, affection and love. But he cannot object to the expression Dean gives him, filled with solemn amazement and admiration. Guilt speckles his expression when he remembers all the lies he has told Dean in an effort to protect him, or rather his identity.

"Perhaps, I could help give you a good grade in biology," Castiel says instead of voicing his turmoil. He goes to Dean's desk and retrieves his composition notebook. He flips through the pages of scrawled notes. "If you need an incentive, I could manage something."

Dean smiles to himself, shaking his head. "Freaking tease. Alright, connective tissue. Quiz me.”

 

* * *

Castiel goes to his classes on Monday, as mundane as they are, and feels a flood of relief when he finds himself sitting next to Dean in their biology class. His dress shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and Castiel finds his eyes linger on the tanned patch of skin for a second before he raises his eyes to Dean’s.

“Hello Dean,” he says, rolling the sweet name around on his lips, a name he will never tire of speaking.

“Hello yourself,” Dean says a bit quieter and knocks his knee into Castiel’s thigh underneath the table. “Teach said we’re doing that dissection of a frog today, partner. I call making the first incision, alright?” Smiling, Dean nudges him with his elbow.

Castiel shrugs noncommittally. “You can do whatever you want. I just enjoy your company.”

A considerable amount of red flushes into Dean’s cheeks. “Al...alright then.”

The teacher clears his throat and begins class, moving into his lecture as he shows a few anatomical illustrations of a frog on the projector. The lights go off to help make the images clearer. Although the lamp in the corner of the room still keeps the faces of all the students illuminated, the rest of the class is considerably dark.

That is why when he feels a squeeze on his knee, Castiel jumps. Before he can quite register the touch Dean is already leaning close to him, voice strung into a deep whisper. “You gotta keep quiet. Don’t make that face, either.”

Castiel swallows, allowing himself relax into the hand wrapped firmly around his knee. Dean’s fingers knead a little, curling into the crease between his thigh and his calf. Castiel does try not to fidget in his seat, but it’s hard not to feel like his skin is simultaneously molten rock and ice when Dean is touching him like this. He finds himself biting his lower lip, trying not to make a sound as Dean’s hand changes direction. Instead of skating underneath his knee, it goes over, and then inside. He pushes Castiel’s legs apart—he hadn’t realized he was pressing them together, for whatever reason—and squeezes his thigh.

A little, helpless sound comes from between his lips and Dean immediately releases his touch, a hushed apology under his breath. His hand lingers for a moment in the air, and the absence of contact makes Castiel rigid. He slaps a hand over Dean’s, shoving it back against his thigh even higher, so close to his own crotch that he was then well aware that there was some uncomfortable strange heat pulsing right there. Arousal, he realizes. His better judgement tells him to stop, but Dean’s fingers dig so hard through the fabric of his pants he arches off the seat of his chair.

Though Castiel doesn’t have a chance to push himself over that boundary by leading Dean’s hand up, because the fluorescents turn back on and the teacher pulls up the projection screen. The room buzzes with excitement, murmuring about the upcoming dissection. Castiel, on the other hand, is buzzing with a new kind a thrill when Dean wrenches its way from Castiel’s grip.

“That was really hot,” Dean confides under his breath, licking his lips as he gives Castiel a concerned look. “Was that alright...what did you think?”

“I think that you should touch me like that more often,” Castiel answers shortly. “And, more so, that I should reciprocate.”

“Christ,” Dean hisses, letting out a slow breath. “I just wanna skip class, but I also don’t want to clean quarterback shit out of the locker room—again.”

Castiel nods in agreement, just as the teacher’s aid gives them a metal plate with a frog laying atop. “But you have been talking about finally doing this for weeks,” he reminds Dean. “You wouldn’t want to miss it.”

Dean rolls his eyes, pulling on a rubber glove with a raised brow. “Believe me, I want to cut up this amphibian thing as much as the next guy, but you’re way more exciting than a goddamned frog.”

 

* * *

 

The following night, on the eve of Death’s rampage of the gulf coast, Castiel still has not heard word from Anael. All the signs say that he will be going to Death unprotected, only a plea in his hands. Maybe he can even offer some kind of deal—an angel’s Grace for humanity is most definitely not an even trade but maybe such a deal would buy Anael some time to do something else.

He has never been confronted with the possibility that he might die, but these last few months have been increasingly enlightening.

When Castiel arrives at Dean’s house, the teen answers the door in a crimson and black jersey. His expression is alarmed, but he pulls Castiel in from the cold by the wrist.

“Shit I forgot to tell you I have a game tonight,” Dean mutters, waving a hand for Castiel to follow. In the living room is his bag, and from it he pulls his cleats and flops down on the couch to put them on. “I don’t know, you could come if you don’t get bored easily.”

Castiel snorts to himself, because of the absurdity of being bored by Dean in any way. He has actually watched Dean play soccer, albeit as more of a celestial wavelength, but he finds himself feeling abnormally... _happy_ at the thought of being there supporting Dean. And he will finally know Castiel is there.

“I won’t,” Castiel answers with a small smile, just as Dean turns up his chin to gaze upward. A little daft, he gives a final tug on his laces and stands up.

“That’s good. That’s really good. You know what—that coat’s not gonna do though, it’s supposed to be cold.” Dean pulls at the lapels of Castiel’s beige coat, innocently so until his palm skirts down his chest and settles on Castiel’s belt. His thumb hooks beneath it and lingers there, but their proximity is closer. Warmer.

“I think this coat his warm enough.”

“It isn’t _spirited_ enough,” Dean amends, releasing Castiel and reaching into his gym bag. A ball of crimson fabric is clenched in his fingers and he gives it a quick shake, revealing a sweatshirt with their school’s coat of arms. He throws it at Castiel. “Sorry...it smells a little bit. If that bothers you then you can get the flasher coat again.”

Curiously, Castiel presses the fabric to his face and inhales. Its musk is so characteristic of Dean, and he breathes it all in, enthralled by the scent. It’s the same scent that lingers on Dean’s sheets, his pillows, his _skin_ when he accidentally curls against Castiel during sleep.

He pulls it away before Dean can make a comment. “Not bad.”

Dean laughs shortly, his smile more enduring than the sound. “Alright then, I just gotta get something from my room and we’ll be going. Mom’s in the van, Sam too. They’ll be happy you’re coming.”

Castiel nods silently as Dean walks away. With easy familiarity, Castiel finds his way to the garage. He sheds his coat along the way and pulls the hoody on just as he opens the door.

“Hey Cas!” he hears almost immediately. Sam sat in the backseat of the minivan, door swung open while his legs dangle out of it while he pushes the headphones off his ears. “You’re coming to the finals?”

“The finals?”

“Yeah, usually this time of the year Dean can’t shut up about the soccer club championships. I’m surprised you haven’t heard him talk about it since, um,” he clears his throat, and Castiel peers at him. “You guys are together a lot.”

“Dean has talked about soccer, but I didn’t know this was a championship. But yes, I am coming with you all.” Mary was on the other side of the minivan, but she rounds it shortly after he arrived. She is expressionless, whereas Castiel stares at her evenly. “If that is alright with you, Mrs. Winchester.”

“Of course,” she replies dismissively.

Before the anticipated silence has a chance to brew a tense atmosphere, Dean is launching himself from the house into the garage, a smile extending across his face.

“We’re gonna _crush_ those goddamn Hornets,” Dean threatens and throws his bag into the backseat.

“Language,” Mary calls half-heartedly.

“Sorry Mom. Hey, Sam, you get in the front seat. Cas and I’ll sit in the back.”

Sam feigns a gasp.“Dean surrendering shotgun? What crazy alternate universe have I been slung into?”

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, yanking him out of the backseat by force—an amusing sight considering that Dean and Sam are nearly the same size. Sam groans and lumbers to the front, after which Dean motions for Castiel to climb in.

“I did not intend to repossess your claim on this backseat,” Castiel tells Sam quietly before Dean climbs in as well.

Sam shakes his head. “No. This is all going according to plan, Cas. No worries.” He gives a carefree smile that lifts Castiel’s spirits a little, considering the close call with Lucifer himself. He wonders if the sigils did more than ward away intrusive angels.

Mary is the last to get in, and brings the minivan to life. She adjusts her rearview mirror as they pull out of the driveway and Castiel catches her crystal stare in the reflection. He is not wanted here by her, but he refuses to let that interfere with him going to Dean’s game.

“Yo! Sam, turn it up!” Dean yells, because apparently there was a quiet track playing on the car’s stereo. Sam does what he’s told, the volume exploding around them.

Castiel watches him, Dean, as he throws his head back with childlike exuberance as the songs words pour from his lips, much louder than it’s actually playing on the soundtrack. “ _No stop lights! Speed limits! Nobody’s gonna slow me down!”_

“ _Like a wheel, gonna spin it!_ ” Sam adds in above the vibrating chords, a beating combination of drums that Dean pretended to play in the small space between his chest and Sam’s seat in front of him. “ _Nobody’s gonna mess me around!”_

Dean leans forward and grabs Mary’s shoulder, smiling playfully. _“Hey mama! Look at me, I’m on my way to the promised land,”_ he tells her. “ _I’m on a highway to hell!”_

 

* * *

 

Castiel was grateful for Dean’s sweatshirt, in the end—the November night was cool—chills continuously ran up and down his spine. He’s never had to deal with trivial things like _being cold,_ so he watches Sam and takes cues from him. He occasionally rubs his hands together, and Castiel mimics the action. The friction, he discovers, produced a small breath of warmth that, when he presses his palms to his face, warms his cheeks. Some wind does whistle through the concave stadium and chafes at his lips, so he keeps licking them. In the end, he’s still cold.

Dean does amazingly, as Castiel knew he would. He has a special talent on his feet, winding and weaving through dozens of bodies—offenders. When he kicks the ball it’s not without some flavor of eloquence. Each step is with purpose. Castiel realizes that this sport must be why Dean excelled so quickly when learning sword fighting.

He stands when Sam and Mary do, to cheer—smiling wide when he sees Dean’s eyes turn up to the bleachers. The lights atop the bleachers shine like spotlights onto the field, most likely blinding him from being able to see any of them. Still, Castiel smiles warmly down at Dean—reaching in a way that only Dean could feel, with his Grace. Dean still must have parts of it.

He sees Dean’s face harden, and then his eyes close as a softer smile spreads across his face. Dean felt him.

Back into the fray, Dean scored goals (he heard Sam refer to the point system like this) and cursed incessantly when the other team did, but in the end a loud buzzing sound resounds in the air and Sam stood on the balls of his feet as he yells. Victoriously, Castiel assumes, so he too stands up and claps his hands together.

Castiel wanders down, watching his feet carefully as he moves on the narrow bleacher steps. He finds himself watching his own shadow, and doesn’t see Dean approaching him. When he feels an arm hook around his neck, he is startled and gravity betrays him. He is falling, in the least angelic sense, but Dean’s reflexes seem to be much faster than the velocity of gravity. “Whoa there, Bella,” Dean snorts and Castiel regains his footing quickly. Dean’s close to him, breathing on his neck, which makes him feel warm all over—a warmth that he wishes to stifle.

“Is that supposed to be a flirtation?” Castiel asks as he turns to Dean. “Bella is a diminutive of Isabella, which means beautiful.”

“No, Cas, that was me comparing your balance to—never mind, you wouldn’t get it anyways. How’d I do?”

“I think your victory speaks for itself,” Castiel says thoughtfully, before offering Dean a knowing smile. “But you did...exceptionally. I couldn’t stop watching you.”

Dean blinks at him, his tongue darting out to dampen his lips. A new warmth settles in the pit of Castiel’s stomach and he realizes he wants to kiss Dean. That same glimmer of want dances behind his eyes, and he must be thinking the same thing.

“You gotta save that for, um, later, alright? I’m really glad you were here, watching me.” Dean blushes and shakes his head. “And I want you to come with me to the after party at one of my teammate’s house.”

A _party_. Curiosity crosses his features as he tilts his head. He has only ever attended one party, in ancient Rome. It was iniquitous and there were countless prostitutes propositioning him. It wasn’t pleasant. However, nearly two thousand years later recreational tradition must change.

Castiel agrees, and shortly after he’s in the back seat of a car he’s never seen driving somewhere he’s never been. Dean’s smiling and laughing, introducing his teammates—nicer ones, ones that are definitely not Ace—to Castiel and _proudly_ so.

The car soon rolls to a stop and they all climb out. Music is already booming from inside a manor which, according to his calculations, is on the outskirts of Lawrence. He turns to Dean, a little worrisome about their distance from the Winchester household—the _safest_ place for a vessel ofan archangel to be, at the moment. He is an _angel_ and regardless of his worries, he _can_ multitask. The night goes on, and while Castiel only grows more anxious to leave, Dean imbibes on enough alcohol to sedate a small mammal. 

And when Castiel does not even manage a stutter after several drinks, Dean only laughs longer and louder, pushing more beer to Castiel in order to "wipe that constipated look" off his face. Dean drags him by the arm into the house and puts a sloppy, innocent kiss on his cheek, he can also pay close attention to whether one of the many teens filing through is a _demon_ or _angel_. He can multitask.

“ _You_ are a fucking horse o’ somethin’,” Dean slurs as he grabs an whisky bottle and tries to pour some in his glass—alas, it was empty, a realization that makes his lips purse. “I ain’t never seen a first timer who ain’t even...slurring after their third—or was that your fourth?—glass.”

They’re both sitting at the dining table. Dean has to steady himself on his seat by clenching the lip of the table, turning to peer into the kitchen. “Hey! Benny! I need another bottle, man, Cas ain’t the least bit hammered.”

One of Dean’s closer, less _hostile_ friends from the team saunters into the kitchen with a pregnant bottle of liquid. He raises an eyebrow at Castiel, and then looks at Dean. “You sure he ain’t as—spittin’ it out?”

“I bet if I kissed him he’d taste like whisky,” Dean answers with a hard glare, leaning across the table to stare at Castiel. “What’s your magic, Cas?”

“Let me do you one the Lafitte way.” Benny goes back into the kitchen, and comes back to the dining room with several shot glasses filled with assorted liquids. He sets them in front of Castiel, a smirk on his lips. “What you’re gonna do is drink it in ascending order. The first one is club soda and the last is vodka.”

Dean bursts into laughter. “You think that’ll put a dent in him?”

“If not we’ll know he’s not human.”

Castiel hesitantly picks up the first glass, swirling the liquid. He lifts his eyes, staring at Dean through the curved window of the shot glass. The look was reciprocated, but Dean was nearly predatory. “You gotta do it fast, Cas. That’s part of it.”

He nods and throws back the first. The second is a little bitter, and the third tasted like dirt. The last one hit his numb tongue and a wave of dizziness came over him. His muscles softened and he felt like slouching down into his seat and falling asleep for all time. “I think I’m starting to feel something.”

Dean nearly falls from his chair as he laughs. Castiel smiles in return, instinctively leaning to catch Dean by his forearm, steadying him. A breath passes through his lips as Castiel does so, eyes dropping to where Castiel touches his bare skin.

“Thanks, I got it,” Dean says and shrugs from Castiel’s grip and his face flushes pink, eyes falling away. “Benny, man, I feel like if I stay here one more minute I’m going to vomit all over your kitchen.”

Benny regards him with a tight smile. “You better not be driving home,” he says, looking to Castiel. “Even you, mister ‘starting to feel something’. I am all for living like no tomorrow, but my party ain’t gonna be responsible for you wrappin’ your car around a tree.”

Dean wobbles as he stands, flattening his palm against the tabletop to steady himself. With his other hand he slaps Benny across the back with some degree of affection. “Didn’t even drive here, we’re walkin’ home.

“Sure you don’t want a ride?” Benny asks.

“Nah, walking’ll sober me up, you know? Plus Cas is barely off that straight and narrow so I’ll make it home in at least two pieces, heh.” He tilts his head toward the door, gaze shifting as well. It’s a wordless request for Cas to stand and follow him as they leave the house. They momentarily enter a fray of dozens of high school students. Music vibrates in the air, and Dean sways for a moment before catching himself on Castiel’s shoulder. “Don’t drink and dance,” he mutters to himself.

Castiel sighs and pulls his arm around Dean’s waist, keeping his body straight as their hips press adjacent to each other.

Immediately, Dean pushes away, huffing an arrogant breath. “I don’t need you to carry me.”

Blinking, Castiel looks around them. “Are you embarrassed because you imbibed past the point of independence?” he deadpans.

“Christ, get of your high horse, I don’t need you to lecture me. Just ‘cause you handle your liquor like a freaking... _robot_ don’t mean I need your help.” He’s features contort in a glare. “Sometimes ya’ dont’ even seem real, maybe you’re a robot. Fuckin’ hunting obsessed _robot_.”

A surge of anger pierces Castiel’s carefully structured facade, and it twists on his lips as he grabs Dean forcefully by his bicep and _pulls_ him—dragging him practically through the front door. He hardly even fights it except by letting a string of curses pour out his lips.

Once they’re outside and the music is just a murmur behind enclosed walls, and there are no eyes, Castiel releases him—actually, he pushes Dean away from him with some degree of disgust.

“You imply I’m a machine, incapable of displaying emotion? Experiencing the pitfalls of humanity?” he asks Dean.

“It’s just—” 

“I am more than susceptible to emotions, Dean, if I have not demonstrated,” he interjects, finding himself closer to Dean, deep within the teen’s personal space. “I can slay monsters with my bare hands and a sword, and I can do it all without flinching.”

Dean glowers at him, his green eyes catching the light of a street lamp. He isn’t afraid, but he should be—Castiel is an angel, a force to be reckoned with. He is _pure energy_ but Dean regards him as a petty hunter with emotional barriers. He does not know that the material from which his ability to _feel_ was created from divine will to save Dean’s life. That the scar that still marks Dean’s shoulder is from his unintentionally blazing hands. And he _should_ not know.

“I feel,” Castiel whispers, and it’s a forbidden admission to the world beyond his own consciousness. “I fear for my own life and I fear for this world, it’s fate. And above all, I fear for yours and Sam’s fate. I am _afraid._ ”

“Shit, Cas,” Dean says beneath his breath and leans in. He presses a small kiss to the side of his mouth, pulls back and their eyes meet in the dim light. “I know. I know you’re not...anything but you. I’m just drunk and tired and I’m kinda afraid too.”

“Then we should go home,” Castiel says, and he does not linger on the fact that he thinks of _Dean’s_ home as his own for too long, because Dean nearly falls again, but into his arms. He mutters something before he loses consciousness altogether. Castiel sighs, clasping a hand tight onto Dean’s shoulder. He hasn’t the time nor patience to drag an unconscious intoxicated teen across the streets.

 


	9. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You see, Castiel,” he says the angel’s name slowly, in recognition, “I do not like any creature with a sense of entitlement. I am older than humans, than angels, even older than God.” He lays down his fork and dabs his lower lip with a napkin before setting his stare on Castiel. It’s a cold, isolating look that Castiel can only rival with unyielding eye contact. “Imagine a cockroach, climbing from the stink of Hell, and telling you what to do—putting you in chains and bending destiny to its will. Then, you will know how I am faring this so-called Apocalypse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry this is late guys, family stuff came up and I just didn't have time to be on the internet. I promise the Tuesday update will be on time!

"What kind of angel are you?"

Castiel evenly gazes at Mary as he sifts through all the possible answers. He most likely settles on the one that would result in his annihilation, if Mary possessed a weapon that could finish the job.

"The kind that is not responsible for policing old habits," he says simply, turning his head to the couch where Dean snores quietly.He exhales a sigh. "Though I do feel as if I have contributed to his stupor to some extent. He was trying to keep up with me."

"Christ," Mary says beneath her breath. "Angels aren't supposed to drink."

"Nor or they supposed to be in league with demonic agenda."

"Or dating my son." Her voice sounds ripe with a new found anger, and Castiel feels a sudden wave of vulnerability come over him. He is partly embarrassed that she even knows about the relationship between him and Dean. Embarrassment is a totally new concept to the angel who once had no shame.

He leans against the couch, forcing his eyes not to linger on the sleeping boy beside him. "Your attempts to glare me away from your son are futile," he says, and it occurs to him that he is being especially petulant. Either he has indeed spent too much time with Dean or the alcohol is indeed having some effect.

She regards him with a scowl, body angling forward though she doesn't take a single step. "The only reason I have resorted to glaring is that I haven't figured out how to kill you, yet." She rounds the couch, fingers dragging along the cushion. "I _do_ believe you're an angel, and I _do not_ believe you are going to hurt my sons, but I don't understand why they are involved in this at all. What's your game plan?"

None of your concern, he wants to say. Castiel weighs the words in his mind, and thinks that if Dean is anything like Mary (which, it is painfully obvious that he is) then obscuring any of the truth would only inflame their relationship further. Beside, Mary is a _hunter._ He knows very little about hunters, but he knows that it requires some kind of cunning to be able to maintain the career and _live._ Not only that, but Mary was able to escape her family tradition. To go against the tradition of one’s family, that takes a strength that Castiel can certainly sympathize with.

"My ‘game plan’ is to watch over them. They are constantly vulnerable to demons and angels alike, despite my best efforts to ward them. They are safer with me at close distance where I can fend off an attack."

"Is that why you sleep in Dean's bed, hm? To protect him?" she asserts in an accusatory manner that catches Castiel off guard, and he finds himself flushing. Mary mustn't have been expecting a reaction of embarrassment, as opposed to his usual composition, because her glower falters. "Is playing with his feelings part of your plan, too?"

Castiel shakes his head slowly. “Dean and I—that’s no _game_ , no playing. I will confess that Dean and I are closer than I would have liked the moment I fe—" he stops himself, because he has not truly fallen. Not in the sense that his Grace would be recycled into a soul. Not in the sense that he is truly human. He collects himself with a small jerk of his chin. "—but I care for Dean. And I care for Sam. I love them both, as I have watched over them—from a distance, mostly—for longer than you know. The relationship that has precipitated between Dean and myself is the product of reciprocation of those feelings. I have not, and have no intention of, taking advantage of his trust."

Doubtful, Mary raises a brow. "Tell me, Castiel—is it common for angels to dress up like teenage boys and make friends?"

"Less than common, I would think," he murmurs sadly, before realizing that her tone was entirely patronizing. He stiffens, pressing his lips together. "I do not think you understand how uncommon it is for angels rebel against Heaven. I am committing treason, with every step I take. And I'm doing it to protect your family."

"I hope you aren't asking for gratitude, because my Thanks Bank is all out of money.”

Briefly, Castiel appreciates how much sarcasm Dean has inherited from his mother.

"I'm not asking for gratitude. I'm asking you to cease your efforts to alienate me,” Castiel clarifies patiently. “I can assure you this vessel's hormones, although overwhelming at times, does not rule my logic."

"Your vessels hormones—" she stutters, eyes growing wide. She exhales an uneven sigh, wiping a hand across her own cheek, reddening the skin with her fingernails. "I do not want to know. I do not want to know," she repeats to herself. "Don't ever talk to me about my son's sex life—or your goddamned vessel hormones, for that matter—ever again."

Despite himself, Castiel continues to blush. Though he agrees with her in a composed tone. "Very well."

Dean mumbles something suddenly below them, rustling the couch cushions as he maneuvers himself into a more comfortable position on his side. Mary sighs and touches her son’s shoulder, satisfied when he doesn't respond. "What are you doing to save them?" she asks, quieter now. Castiel watches her face, smooth and sad as she watches Dean. It's love in her expression, and he thinks that her low volume may seem a little more helpless, rather than an attempt not to wake up her son.

"There is a spell that will give access to a portal, which opens directly inside Lucifer's cage—his prison in Hell," he explains to Mary, not really considering whether the information was too sensitive for her ears or not. He is vague enough, he supposes. "And I actually go tomorrow to get the...final ingredient."

"And what about the archangel? Michael."

Castiel's eyes focus upon Dean's sleeping face for an enduring moment. They still have not composed a plan to dispose of his eldest brother. His hopes lie with Death; if the horseman wants the petty angelic wars to cease just as badly as Castiel does, then he may not only offer up his ring, but a solution that will allow Michael to be taken out of the picture _without_ using Dean’s body as a catalyst. 

"He will be accompanying Lucifer," Castiel replies with a breath of finality. "And Sam and Dean will be safe."

She sighs, pressing her palm against Dean’s cheek now. "You sound so sure. I was sure once, that they would be safe. I got out of the life, I married the most fantastic man and I got out,” she murmurs, nostalgic at first before she fades into an expression Castiel can only describe as grief-stricken. “I nearly lost everything in the process, but I did it. And now everything is coming unraveled, my sacrifices are for nothing."

"No sacrifice is meaningless, Mary," Castiel tells her, certain as he calls upon the wisdom of his own Father, wisdom ingrained in his mind from the moment of creation. "All wrongs can be righted with pure act of love, a sacrifice."

"Sounds like a verse straight out of the New Testament,” she murmurs to herself, and then her brows furrow deeper. “Was Jesus Christ even the son of God?"

"We are all His children, I suppose," Castiel says. "The modern translation of son is a misinterpretation. The Christ Son was a prophet, the most important one, inarguably. He bore God's final words to the people."

Mary stares at him. "God's final words?"

"God is gone," Castiel informs her morosely, shoulders shrugging. "He left, which is why the End must not begin. We do not know if God is truly ready for his precious creations to be obliterated. There is certainly no reason to expedite the process."

"God left," Mary repeats slowly. She purses her lips."Then who is telling you what to do?"

Cold splashes across his face, making his blood run like ice.

He has a sense of rightness that cannot be explained simply by exposure to humanity. Some might call it a conscious, but angels are not born with those. They are born as soldiers and they are born to do what they're are told.

Somewhere along his existence, he must have broken. He must have touched Earth and felt its wonders infect him with something more potent than simple righteousness. Before he took Jimmy Novak's body, he felt this odd sensational ability sweep over him.

He knows what it is.

"No one," he answers after a pregnant silence. "I have free will.

Concentrating on Castiel, Mary narrows her eyes. "So, if you sacrificed being Heaven's bitch, what did you do?"

"I don't understand your question," he murmurs back slowly.

"Why did you choose now to fight back, if it's been like this for thousands of years?" she elaborates. "What did you do that made you think you owed us—humans—anything? What wrong were you trying to wash away?"

Castiel nods in understanding, and tries not to be bitter in his answer. "I think you misunderstand; angels are built to love God, we are made of love, composed of His compassion. The only difference between me and those who I go against is that I have hope in you. Humanity has hope, Mary. Please do not lose sight of the hope you once so strongly believed in." Instead of rolling her eyes, they seem to gleam with a softer emotion. “Think of your sons, your hope in their futures. I am an angel, a soldier at heart,” he goes on. “But you are a mother, you are more equipped to hope, so do not lose it.”

The silence that follows Castiel’s plea is anticipating, Mary’s eyes blinking wildly as they gleam in the dim light shining from the kitchen. She turns away for a moment, biting her lower lip. Restraint, Castiel thinks. She is holding back her emotion, and he understands the feeling. "I understand you better now,” she whispers, voice wrought with calamity. “I’ll—I’ll stop looking for a way to kill you.”

He feels himself exhale in relief, offering her a smile. A thought strikes him, making the warmth in his chest subside as he snaps his hand through the air. The movement summons his angel blade into his hand, handle superior to the blade as he hands it to Mary.

"Look no further," he says quietly, grinding his teeth as she watches him speculatively. Mary takes the handle, experimentally weighing it in her hand. The confusion is evident in her eyes when she looks back up to him. "That blade is the heavenly manifestation of death, forged in the flames of angels lost in battle, cooled by the Nucleus of Heaven. And I leave it in your charge, Mary."

"It kills...angels?"

"And demons," Castiel affirms. "I trust you won't try to kill me while I sleep, because I seldom actually fall into REM sleep."

A smile pulls at her lips. "I won't. Unless you piss me off."

"Then I suppose I should stay in your good graces at all costs.”

Mary snorts and drops the blade into the pocket of her bathrobe, then tightening her arms across her chest as if she were cold. "But why are you giving it to me?"

"Because," Castiel starts, considering his words. "Tomorrow I am going to face Death."

"You're afraid you might die."

Instead of correcting her, he nods. Informing Mary that he is going to see the literal manifestation of death—a horseman of the apocalypse—may be unsettling.

"I am nearly certain I may die," he admits, averting his eyes. "Which is why you need that to protect yourself. And them." He gestures to Dean with a lazy flick of his wrist.

Tilting her head, Mary's blonde hair falls over her shoulder. Her eyes pull open, awarding Castiel a soft glance that she hasn't given him in months, or perhaps ever. "Good luck," she whispers, swallowing. Her eyes turn down to Dean again. "He needs to go to bed."

Her words are sudden, and firmer than the ones preceding them. Her eyes focus on him, and Castiel catches on fairly quickly. What she was giving him was permission—the authority to spend a few moments alone with Dean. His breath hitches, and he nods, bending down to grasp onto his ankle. He closes his eyes, pulling all the matter of Dean's being with him—

And they are in the darkness of Dean's room. Dean gasps, throwing an arm up from his bed and catching Castiel's pant leg. He must have been conscious enough to feel the flight this time, and Castiel soothes him by touching Dean's arm.

"Cas," Dean whispers into the dark, "We home?"

Castiel sits down on the edge of the bed, and Dean's hand never leaves his leg, only climbs up his thigh. Just the same, Castiel's hand lingers on Dean's arm, finding the patch of cloth which, underneath, lay his own handprint. The electricity is apparent to both of them, because Dean lets out a small sound that is like a whimper. Castiel sighs, too. Neither of them are afraid of that alien sensation know, the place as vulnerable as it is sensitive. It's just like a key fitting a lock, Castiel thinks, the afterthought more lazy and warm. Whatever Grace he burned into Dean, it's wrapped around his soul already.

"We're home," Castiel finally responds, leaning down to him and finding Dean's lips. 

Yes, this is home. 

A quick inhale, Dean’s teeth scratching against his lower lip, and Castiel is lost in the kiss. He squeezes Dean's arm tighter, and Dean responds by pulling Castiel's leg with a generous amount of force, so that Castiel's legs now straddle Dean’s lower abdomen. Their kiss is much more passionate than any other, and it must be because Castiel acknowledged only moments ago that tomorrow's encounter with Death may very well mean his demise. The thought of never seeing Dean again, of leaving him alone and at the mercy of archangels, it's the most terrifying thought he could have when he's this close to Dean.

He doesn't want to break away, but Dean deliberately pulls his lips back, the pop so loud in the deafening silence of the room. "I'm sorry 'bout the party," he breathes against Castiel's mouth, still smelling like alcohol—bitter and potent. "The things I said, I know you...like me, I'm just stupid...young 'n stupid, ya' know?"

"You're still intoxicated," Castiel says, rolling off Dean. It is dark, so he doesn't feel afraid when he unconsciously presses the heel of his hand to his groin, ordering the growing erection to subside. Dean can't see him do it, but he still ends up blushing.

"Yeah, but Cas—you need to know I want you. I don't need you, I realize that. Learned in psych that's codependency or somethin'. I'm not codependent. But I _want_ you. I want to be with you all the time and—sometimes, forever. I want you forever, if it's possible"

"Dean," he whispers quietly, pained. He doesn't want to hear this, not now, not when he may never see Dean again.

"I will remember this when I wake up," Dean promises him, words slurring, finding Castiel's fingers in the dark and pulling them—to his lips, Castiel realizes, when he feels his fingers brush against warm, plump skin. "And I'll mean it all, just the same. Promise."

Dean goes slightly limp, and Castiel senses his consciousness waning again. Something stings at Castiel's eyes, an uncomfortable warmth that ripples across his lids and settles in the corners, his ethmoid bones, he supposes. He blinks and is surprised when a trail of wet flicks down his cheeks, falls onto his lower lips. It tastes like the salt Mary douses her food in. Tears.

Castiel exhales and Dean releases his hand, which then falls to his chest.

"Dean, I love you.”

Castiel begins to stroke his fingers through Dean’s hair, lulling him to sleep. Dean mumbles, struggling to make his alcohol-numbed lips form words. But he manages, "I know."

A breathy chuckle escapes Castiel's lips, forcing the tears in his eyes out faster, emptying the sadness seated in his chest. Castiel had seen enough the Star Wars trilogy to know what that the response was, in fact, abstaining from reciprocation.

With a quick brush against Dean's consciousness tells Castiel that he's already fallen back asleep, thoughts warped—yet bright—due to the alcohol pumping through his brain. So, he has no expectation that his goodbye will be heard.

He touches a finger against Dean's forehead, wanting one last touch against Dean's mind in any way possible. His Grace is too weak to see the dreams, but he gets images that are bright in color, quiet in sound, and so soft that Dean may as well be thinking of his own Heaven.

Castiel grins, lets it last before the pain of reality makes it falter and fall away. "Goodbye, Dean.”

 

* * *

Castiel has gone to battle many times.

He remembers in the First War against Lucifer and the leagues of angels that followed his lead, he left heaven the first time in a wave of celestial fury. They were all comets, and the sky was theirs, and Lucifer stood no chance.

Then, at least.

He is a soldier through and through, yet Castiel is still afraid. It’s in him, a disease that makes his bones ache as he walks down the hazy streets of New Orleans. The air tastes like acid, though it may be the taste of adrenaline as his heart pounds harder and harder with each step he takes. His hair sticks to his scalp, his forehead, though he is unsure if it is from the muggy, humid air or the simple sensation of fear.

Fear is so utterly human. Briefly, Castiel wishes he could smother that flame of humanity for this day, if only to cease the nervous feeling each time a commuter’s eyes meet his own. Any one of them could be Death, or a demon, or an angel. He cannot trust his powers to sense it anymore. It’s becoming harder to rationalize _not_ falling anymore; he is also afraid of the way his grace has withered down like a burned candle wick. He doesn’t know how many times he can ignite his grace before there is nothing left but _human._

The wind picks up and sweeps the tan coat that hangs over Castiel’s shoulders, causing the fabric to ripple violently against his leg. Castiel squints and turns his head, eyes cascading down the sidewalk. He catches a flick of amber, and he focuses to see Anael standing on the opposite side of the street, her red hair tossing in the wind as she stares at him evenly. Castiel takes one step, and a push of his wings, and he’s standing next to her.

“Someone could have seen,” she tells him, but there is no emotion in her voice.

Castiel lowers his eyes and then looks over his shoulder. It’s true, there are people everywhere, but most of them seem to be utterly focused on the cracks on the sidewalk, the puddles, or perhaps their own shoes. He shrugs his shoulders and says,“But they didn’t.”

She sighs, and it’s the most human thing she has done in weeks, Castiel notes. The layers of togetherness fall off her shoulders and her brows pinch.

“Anna?” he says, her human nickname falling off his lips easily. It makes her uneasy, her shoulders tense even more

Very suddenly, her eyes snap to meet his. “I need to go with you, to see Death,” she says hurriedly, lips quivering like each word is forced. “You’re going to die without some kind of back-up, Castiel. This is not a one-angel mission—this is _Death._ ”

He shakes his head. “I wish for no one to accompany me. I only need to know where Death is at this moment.”

“I won’t let you go by yourself,” Anael says defiantly. “I won’t let you commit suicide...Cas.”

“The word suicide holds a negative connotation,” Castiel says to her, voice even as he squints up into the sky, watches the dark clouds move from the gulf over the land. The rain should begin soon. “In this society, the word—the action—is associated with an _escape,_ cowardice. The lust for an end, no matter the means. What I am about to do, however, is a sacrifice.”

“You’re sacrificing your _life_ ,” she intones.

“And that is the most meaningful sacrifice I could ever make. My life for the lives of two humans I have come to love; my life for the lives of God’s children. This is our only option, and I must try. Otherwise, all we have done will be in vain. Our falling, our treason, it will all be for naught if I don’t try.”

“Then why must you do it alone?”

There is a weakness in Anael’s voice that makes him quiver. He drops his eyes to meet hers, realizes how vivid and blue they are, much like his own. It never occurred to him that their vessels may look remotely similar. The warmth in his chest indicates that it is because, for the first time, he is seeing his dear Anael through humanity’s eyes.

He wonders if he still looks an angel to her.

Castiel lifts his hand to her cheek, much like she has always done to him in times he has needed comfort. Memories come back to him, memories of moments before battle in which Anael has held him, perhaps not physically, but cradled him with the tendrils of her Grace, and assured him and the others in their garrison of victory. Touching with human hands, with heat and affection, is far more powerful than that. But still, it is a reminder that fear has, in fact, always been with him. It is just easier to ignore when it does not coincide with the complexities of human emotion.

With a breathless sigh, Anael bends under his touch and her eyes shudder, and a few tears fall down her cheeks. Distress is written across her face, and he tries to quell it by wiping away those tears by drawing his thumb across her cheek.

“I must do this alone because, if I fail, you must protect Sam and Dean,” he reminds her gently. “You are the only one in this world I trust with not only my own life, but with theirs.”

“You shouldn’t,” she whispers, a frown tugging at her lips.

“I do, I trust you implicitly.” Castiel drops his hand. “Now, it’s time,” he muses. “Where is he?”

Instead of answering, she touches his shoulder and lifts him only a few blocks over. They stand on the sidewalk in front of a parlor, for what seems to be a seafood restaurant dedicated to the local cuisine. Bitter amusement dances on his thoughts, and he wonder what Dean might say if he knew the manifestation of death itself was consuming food prior to destroying a segment of civilization. Castiel hushes his thoughts, knowing that thinking so frivolously of Dean in the dawn of battle could result in—in distractions.

“He’s in there,” Anaels says to him from his side, capturing his attention and discarding the wandering thoughts all together. “I also have this for you.”

She hands him a curved blade, a scythe, that is ancient by its appearance and the energy resonating through the iron. Castiel squeezes the handle, weighs the weapon in his hand.

“It’s Death’s,” Anael explains. “I procured it from a Crossroads demon; apparently its powers include reaping Gods, so it may have some chance of working on him too.”

“Thank you,” he says, letting the blade drop with his arm to his side. “Now leave. And if I do not return by dawn tomorrow, go to Mary Winchester. Tell her I am dead and that she must leave Lawrence with Sam and Dean. Assist her, please.” His voice is chiseled and frantic. He breathes in, breathes out, finds his balance again. Evenly, he says, “The Winchesters must never be found.”

“I will do everything in my power to—to perform God’s true will,” she says, stuttering as her lips quiver. “Goodbye, brother.”

“Anael,” he says as a means of farewell. And then she is gone.

Alone, the howling of the wind seems much louder.

 

* * *

 

He is out of practice at being soundless. Sam and Dean always complain that he sneaks up on them, that he should “wear a bell” which Castiel highly objected to initially because he’s _not_ an animal. As most things are, it was a simple colloquialism that meant Castiel should drag his feet and not be silent when he walks.

As he moves through the parlor, he keeps his footsteps quiet and dares not access his Grace; it might signal Death of his presence, if he isn’t already aware. His wings are tucked against his spine as well, for very much the same reason.

 Around him lay dead bodies. Castiel can smell their presence, dark and heavy and sickening, but he has known battle enough to know that none of them have been dead very long. As he steps along the floor, avoiding the crimson pools on hardwood, he wonders if Death meant to kill them or if his presence is just too overwhelming for humans. They all seem to be innocent bystanders. Maybe their deaths were swift. Perhaps this is preferable than the Death the rest of this city is about to suffer at the hands of a hurricane.

Ultimately, Castiel should not care because _Death_ is responsible. There is no greater authority on when and how people should die. Though, when his life is hanging by a thread of _mercy_ it’s easy to care.

At all the tables throughout the sitting area, each and every patron is dead. Some have fallen face first into their plates, eyes wide as foam drips from their unhinged jaws into their half-eaten dishes; some have tumbled into the floor, obstructing Castiel’s path as he continues. Only one body is fully erect, at a table near the window that overlooks the street. Castiel quietly curses, clutches the scythe tighter only to realize it’s burning in his hands. The heat is an unpleasant surprise, even for an angel, and he finds the scythe slipping out of his fingers. It falls to the floor with a loud clanking sound.

And then it’s no longer on the floor.

In front of him, the figure holds up the scythe. He faces away from Castiel, but there is a bitterness evident in the mere way he holds up to scythe, _showing_ him that his plan is foiled.

“Thank you for returning this to me,” Death announces and then the blade evaporates from his fingers. Castiel dares not move, even when Death replaces the scythe with a long, delicate fork which his stabs onto his plate. For several minutes he stands there still and breathless, which gives him the wherewithal not to jerk when Death slams his fork onto the table—it’s not a violent action, but it fulfills its purpose: it sets Castiel on edge. “Are you going to sit down, angel?”

Castiel thinks it wise not to hesitate when Death asks you to sit down. He begins walking toward the table immediately, and sits down in the chair directly across from Death. A body lay limp in the chair adjacent to him, which unsettles Castiel slightly. He looks at it, a woman in a pale pink dress with light brown hair, only briefly before turning his gaze. However uncomfortable, he he must force himself to set his eyes evenly on the being before him.

Death is quite human, at first glance. He wears a trim suit and a cane leans against the table, though it’s surely not because the being cannot carry his weight. Famine was decrepit and literally _starving_ for power, whereas Death bled might by the mere way he chewed his food. Clinical, precise. That is where Castiel begins to see the layers of humanity pulled away—Death wears this form much like an angel wears a vessel—and he sees how hollow the man’s face is, his sunken eyes and cheeks and the ghostly pallor of his skin. Even the curve of his lips, perpetually judgmental, is unnatural.

“Aren’t you a gawky one,” says Death, eyes peering through his thin, gray eyelashes. Castiel squints in response, not uttering a word. “At least you are quiet. Your older brother has a mouth on him, what a relief that God didn’t make _all_ angels to be such annoyances.” Death rolls his eyes dramatically and lifts his fork to his mouth, chewing what seems to be a piece of shrimp. Castiel wrinkles his nose as the recognition of the scent mixes with the smell of copper—blood.

“You refer to Lucifer,” says Castiel with furrowed brows.

“Mhm,” Death confirms, finishing his bite and swallowing. “You see, Castiel,” he says the angel’s name slowly, in recognition, “I do not like any creature with a sense of entitlement. I am older than humans, than angels, even older than God.” He lays down his fork and dabs his lower lip with a napkin before setting his stare on Castiel. It’s a cold, isolating look that Castiel can only rival with unyielding eye contact. “Imagine a cockroach, climbing from the stink of _Hell_ , and telling you what to do—putting you in chains and bending destiny to its will. Then, you will know how I am faring this so-called Apocalypse.”

Castiel nods in agreement. “He has no right to—to intrude upon your domain.”

A small smile curls on Death’s lips and he looks to his side. Next to him on the table is a glass of soda, untouched for the most part it seems. It may have belonged to the dead woman in the pink dress. He picks it up and sets it in front of Castiel. “Take a drink, Castiel,” he commands.

He only hesitates briefly, unsettled once again by the woman beside him. Death raises an eyebrow, as if asking _would you dare?_ So Castiel drinks, and he actually feels _better_ when the cool liquid hits his stomach, saturates his mouth. He hadn’t realized how dry it had become. When he feels satiated, he pushes the glass away and mutters a quiet, “Thank you,” before resuming conversation. Castiel clears his throat. “I have come to you, because I want to stop him.”

“I know that.”

Castiel does not let his gaze waver as he leans over the table. “Then, will you?”

Death watches him, contemplating an answer, but then he doesn’t. “I really do like New Orleans, I’m actually thinking about disobeying Lucifer’s orders. I am sure his little spell may cause me some discomfort eventually, maybe a stomach ache, but I really cannot comprehend destroying an entire culture filled with such excellent cuisine.” Death sighs, and Castiel notes that each sequential one is increasingly tired-sounding. “New Orleans will live to see another day; you didn’t even have to ask me to save _these_ humans!” Another spiteful smirk curls on his lips. “Ah, but these humans were not the height of your concern, were they?”

“I want to save all humans,” Castiel says earnestly.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Death tuts. “Honesty is the best policy, Castiel. You ought to make your intentions clear and quick. I would love nothing more than to reap the vessels for those petulant archangels—it would solve my problems in the long run, until some other bloodline emerges that can house an archangel. However, you seem to be confident in a second option?”

“Using your ring to open the doors to Lucifer’s cage,” Castiel clarifies with a sharp nod. “That is what I am going to do.”

“If I give it to you,” clarifies Death.

Castiel bows his head humbly. “Of course.”

Death raises his hand in the air, showing the square pearl face on the wring. With a pinched smile he examines his own ring, and then begins to twist it off. “That this ring possesses my power, it is a myth,” he tells Castiel with a small smirk. “You could not fathom the power I possess, and it is not an inconsequential piece of jewelry which anchors it."

Death removes the ring completely and sets it in the center of the table between them. Castiel’s eyes fall to it, examining the square pearl-faced wiring and intricate band contrast against the off-white tablecloth. “Does the same hold true for your brother’s rings?”

The being rolls his eyes and curtly shakes his head. “Ah, the other three horsemen? They are not my brothers. They are a means to the end, is what they are. Their power pales in comparison to mine, so it is easier to manifest into a ring. It’s a foolish novelty and _clearly_ it made them all too vulnerable. Though, I’m neither surprised nor remorseful.” Death drags a finger across the blade of one butter knife laying on one side of his plate, thoughtful when his nail makes the quietest of sounds against its slightly serrated edge. “In every culture, Death is the god which everyone fears. That is, until Christianity came along with its fictitious rendition of my soldiers. Yes, _my_ soldiers. You see, famine, war, pestilence—what is their result? _Death,_ Castiel. Death. I am the end for all; I have overseen each death since time began and will be the one to reap the final life upon this earth. And I will reap God, upon his highly anticipated return.”

There is no response that can encompass the rolling waves of fascination and fear throughout Castiel. A thrill goes through him, upon sitting with arguably the most powerful being to ever exist, to sit with him and hear the wonders of his might. If his fate were not hanging in the balance, threatened more with each passing second, he would crave more knowledge, inquire about the beginning—before the angels—and about the end, for he is the end.

He does not anticipate Death to reach across the table again, and pick up the ring.

Castiel’s stomach drops, in surprise and the sequential fear that this is some play, some game, to fool him. But it is all real when Death places the ring carefully in the center of Castiel’s outstretched palm. It’s cool in his hand, when he squeezes his fingers shut and dares not open them. 

“I want that back. I'm afraid I'm to sentimental for my own good.” Death leans back in his chair, examines Castiel with one raised brow. “Oh, and before I forget—don’t you want to know the incantation?”

 

* * *

 

When Castiel returns to Lawrence, the sun is already pushing through the trees. Panic swirls in his stomach, it nauseates him, and he immediately closes his eyes and calls for Anael. He receives no response, so he flies into the Winchester household without caution. He finds Mary in the living room where he left her, sitting in the love seat adjacent to the television. She grips his angel blade in her hand, eyes burning a hole into the figure on the couch.

Anael immediately stands upon Castiel’s arrival, shoulders heaving with an adulating sigh of relief. Mary’s eyes follow hers and meet Castiel’s gaze; her brows knit together while her lips are tight, an expression typical of fear and distrust. Blinking, Castiel disregards Mary Winchester altogether, turning his attention to Anael.

“How did you get in here?” he asks her tersely. “This house is warded against all angels except myself.” She should not even know this location.

“Then how did you expect me to to retrieve them, hide them, if you had me warded out?” she counters with a flare of bitterness that takes Castiel back. He did not even consider that, he realizes, and curses his—oversight.

Instead, he ignores that and reminds Anael that home intrusion was not the only option. “You could have lured them out and explained the situation. Now you have fed the flames of distrust.” Castiel gestures toward a particularly on-edge Mary, whose gaze flashed between the two angels. “How did you get in?”

Heaving a sigh, Anael takes a seat back on the couch. This agitates Mary and she raises the blade higher, to which Castiel responds by raising his hand.

“Mary, Anael is a friend, my sister,” he says quietly, promise in his voice. “She has been helping me.”

She still does not hesitate to settle into a predatory stance, knees bent and arm arched as if she was born to wield an angel blade. Mary’s lip curls, her glare intensifying. “She shouldn’t be so comfortable in a hunter’s house.”

“You’re not threat to me, even with my brother’s blade,” says Anael indifferently. “As for your sigils, they are not as thorough as you thought. However, I can fix them to that they work properly, if you’d like.”

How could Castiel have possibly made a mistake with the sigils? They have deterred angels passing the threshold for months. _Months,_ the Winchesters have been in danger. His senses are weakened so much now, would he even be able to feel an angel if one had been in this house? Feel the trail of their Grace, if it saturated his and Dean’s bedroom? Castiel feels his fist tighten, and he is distracted briefly by the cutting sensation of his nails into his palm. And then he feels Death’s ring, cool inside his right clenched fist, and that is what breaks him from his reverie.

“Yes,” Castiel finally bites out, relaxing his fists. He offers Anael his right hand and opens his fingers, revealing the ring.

Awe fills her expression, and she snaps her hand forward to snatch the ring. “You actually did it.”

“He was surprisingly complacent in our plan,” says Castiel indifferently.

“What is that?” Mary is suddenly standing closer, eyes peering down to the ring as Anael rolls it between her fingers, the yellow light of the ceiling fan giving the ring’s pearl face a faint glow.

Castiel hesitates to answer honestly, his lips pressing together. She already knows he’s an angel, which is ultimately the greatest secret stored in his sleeve. However, if Mary was ever compromised by demons or angels, her knowing of the plan would surely result in the plan’s failure.

“It will help us defeat Lucifer and Michael,” he tells her. “I cannot tell you any more, I’m sorry.”

“Fine, then,” Mary says and lowers the knife, looking more exhausted than defeated. “I want this angel bitch out of my house. I can trust one angel with my sons’ lives, but not two.”

He nods in understanding. He has earned Mary’s trust not to hurt Sam and Dean, but Anael is a complete stranger to her. “Anael, we will go elsewhere and speak,” says Castiel, gesturing for her to follow as he takes a few steps from the living room. “The warehouse, perhaps.”

Anael makes no move to stand. Instead she pulls a chain from beneath her shirt, revealing the necklace on which she has kept the rings. She waves her palm over the chain and Death’s ring is added to it, dangling against her torso next to all the other rings. She then looks up to Castiel, expressionless. “I’ll meet you there, I have to meet Gabriel.”

“Oh,” says Castiel with a small puff of breath.

“Don’t look so dejected.” Anael offers him a small smile. “I’ll fix the sigils, and leave. Goodbye, Castiel.” A flap of wings, a disruption of the air, and she is gone.

Together, Mary and Castiel stand in complete silence.

Which does not last long.

“Who the hell is Gabriel? Like God’s _messenger_ Gabriel?” Mary demands suddenly. Castiel feels the urge to muse a hand through his hair, and then muffle a stagnant sigh against his palm.

 

* * *

 

 

It is surprisingly comforting, to discuss the hierarchy of Heaven with Mary. As a hunter, he supposes, she is highly inquisitive in her nature. As they discuss, she ushers Castiel into the kitchen and quietly instructs him to help her fix breakfast as he goes on about the minor and major facets of Heaven. It reminds him that, yes, he is still a knowledgeable and capable _angel_ who knows the workings of Heaven.

“What were you to Heaven? You answer prayers?” Mary asks, and it surprisingly isn’t an indictment. She genuinely wants to know. Meanwhile, she is cracking eggs over a hot skillet that sizzles with butter, and wordlessly requests Castiel to pass her the salt shaker on the other side of the stove where he stands.

“Angels...don’t do that, at least not anymore,” says Castiel quietly as he hands her the salt, a little shame intruding his voice. “Regardless, I was not designed to—to assist humans. I am a seraphim, a warrior of Heaven. I was created just after Lucifer tempted Eve and civil war was declared. I witnessed Michael locking away Lucifer, in fact; though our garrison was among the thousands at that time.”

Mary watches him curiously as she pushes the eggs in the skillet, flips them one by one. “Please get me a plate,” she asks him quietly. Castiel remembers the correct cabinet easily enough—Sam and Dean eat without relent, so he’s seen them retrieve plates constantly—and hands the ceramic disk to Mary.

The kitchen is filled with the scent of eggs, and toast beginning to burn in the toaster on the opposite side of the kitchen. Without being told Castiel gets another plate and crosses the kitchen, experiments with the toaster’s mechanics in an attempt to stop the toast from burning. He gently presses a lever and flinches when the bread pops up.

“Careful, those are gonna be hot,” Mary warns too late when Castiel grabs one piece, and it sears at his fingertips for a split second and he quickly drops it on the plate. He knows better than to hold on too long when he grabs the other pieces of toast. “You act like you have no concept of _hot_ ,” she comments a moment later when Castiel brings her the plate while sucking on his burnt finger.

“I did not, until very recently.”

Mary’s brows furrow at that. “You mean, you’re new to—” she peers at him, eyes dragging down his figure. “Being like a human?”

“Yes. Months ago I had no concept of pain, at least in the human sense. Pain in Heaven was ultimate shame and isolation, when one disobeyed. At least in my true form, I have been completely vulnerable since I took this vessel.”

“Wait, so you’re riding some _kid_?” Mary snaps very suddenly, anger swelling on her features. “This isn’t your body?”

He thought it was clear that angels must take vessels, since that is Michael and Lucifer’s intentions in regards to Sam and Dean. Perhaps she associated that intention with the archangels, and thusly assumed that the taking of vessels was generally _negative._

“No, there is no one in here,” says Castiel quickly, shaking his head. “This body was given to me willingly by a devout boy. I let his soul go to Heaven, when I realized the perils of my mission. And it is better that way, as I am most likely not to survive the coming months.”

Mary still is visibly uncomfortable with the nature of Castiel taking a human form, but she ceases staring at him like he is a demon and resumes cooking. It’s pancake mix that she pours into the pan next. “So then what’s your true form?”

“There are no adequate words in any human language to describe. Immense, is one I suppose. I am composed of pure celestial energy. Fully expanded, I am roughly the size of your Chrysler Building.”

“Well then,” Mary laughs. “I can imagine why you would need to take a vessel, you would never have blended here in Small Town, USA.”

“Also, I would blind anyone who can see me,” Castiel adds dismally. “Most likely burned their eyes from their sockets.”

“Oh, lovely.” Castiel senses sarcasm in Mary’s tone, seeing disgust curl at her lower lip. With a heavy sigh, she pushes the handle of her spatula at him. “Could you finish breakfast? I am going to run down the street to the pharmacy real quick. Need some things to make Dean a… a hangover remedy.” She combs her fingers through her hair, seeming exhausted. “Just, um. Flip the pancakes when you see bubbles. Then when both sides are gold, put ‘em on a plate and wake up my sons.”

He nods a little, eyes wide when she leaves him alone in the kitchen. He sets his gaze on the pancakes, watching carefully for even the slightest of bubbling.

 

* * *

 

After carefully making sure all the knobs on the stove are completely turned to the _OFF_ position, Castiel neatly aligns the plates on the bar: pancakes, eggs, toast, and freshly sliced apples (which Castiel took the liberty of cutting up because he knows Sam _loves_ apples and Dean does too, but won’t admit it). Satisfied, and hopeful that _Mary_ will be satisfied, he goes upstairs. He knocks quietly on Sam’s door (“Dude, you have to _knock_ before you go in anyone’s personal space,” Dean once told him after Castiel walked into the bedroom and Dean was fumbling with his pants, half-naked) and when no response comes, he cracks open the door. 

Sam is twisted beneath the sheets, a little sunlight filtering through his closed shades as he snores lightly. Castiel smiles to himself, reveling in the fact that Sam seems to be having _good_ dreams now, happy dreams. He wants to let the younger Winchester sleep a little longer.

He then goes further down the hall and, as he did before, knocks on Dean’s door. Once again, no response. He opens Dean’s door even more slowly than he did Sam’s, but finds that Dean is just as asleep and tangled as his little brother. Warmth bursts in Castiel’s chests as he crosses the bedroom and settles on its edge, next to Dean. He rests his hand on Dean’s arm, and then pushes his fingers up, effectively pushing up his sleeve too. Very suddenly Castiel’s hand is placed perfectly over his own handprint, which makes Dean stir as electricity simultaneously prickles up his arm. Dean’s eyes crack open, light green emeralds catching the light coming through his window.

“Why does’t do that?” Dean groans, but doesn’t shy away from the sensation as he usually does. As curt as the question is, Castiel knows exactly what he is asking. He cannot tell Dean that, before they even met, Castiel accidentally burned him with his Grace. He cannot confess that he suspects he left part of himself on Dean’s skin, and that when they connect it’s like they are parts of one whole.

And because he doesn’t know _why_ that particular bond was forged, he is able to answer honestly. “I don’t know, Dean.”

“Can you c’mere?” asks Dean after a long, pregnant silence filled with intense staring.

Castiel obeys, leaning down closer to Dean. Even though he knows what’s coming, he still feels a gasp rip through him when their lips suddenly connect. He squeezes Dean’s arm and pulls himself deeper into their new embrace. He tastes _bad_ , Castiel must admit. Like alcohol and morning breath. However, neither of these bother Castiel because it’s Dean’s warmth and Dean’s lips that make his insides curl with pleasure, like he has never breathed before. Dean’s tongue presses at Castiel’s lips, probing them to ask for entrance. Enthusiastic, Castiel opens his mouth wide and inhales the kiss like he _needs_ it to live.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs against him, the languid kiss turning into short pecks. “God, I need a shower.”

Castiel sniffs through his nose, smelling the faint scent of alcohol on his skin. Much better than his breath. “You smell fine,” Cas says, because he doesn’t really want to stop kissing Dean just yet. He even experiments, letting his mouth slide to the corner of Dean’s mouth. 

The noises the boy beneath him makes urges him to continue, because he likes that he can make _Dean_ whimper for once. Castiel may be _new,_ but he knows what makes him feel boneless when Dean kisses him. He turns the table quickly, kissing down Dean’s jaw and finding his mouth buried in his neck. He licks, he suckles, but then Dean is suddenly pushing at his shoulder.

Rejection cools the heat simmering through him, as Castiel pulls away very quickly. Perhaps he did too much. Dean doesn’t want him to kiss him like _that._ It’s then that Castiel recognizes the sudden burning in his cheeks, the nausea in his stomach. It’s embarrassment, dejection. “I am sorry.”

“Hey, don’t,” Dean snaps at him, glaring. “It ain’t you, I totally want you to go to town on me like that again.” He licks his chapped lips as he pushes himself onto his elbows, so that he and Castiel are eye to eye. “But I’m hungover, I feel disgusting. And I’m pretty damn hungry, too.”

Castiel is silent for a moment as he digests what Dean just said: he _wants_ Castiel, wants them to resume the passionate kissing and touching at a later date. He can accept that Dean wants to wait, as humans need more...upkeep.

“Okay,” Castiel concedes and pushes himself from the bed. “I suppose you are fortunate that I just finished breakfast.”

Dean’s eyebrows push up in what looks like surprise. “You cook?”

“Certainly not, but I helped Mary. She went to the pharmacy to get a hangover cure.”

“Shit,” Dean curses and rubs his face. “She saw you bring me home, didn’t she? Dude, I was so hammered, she’ll be so pissed at me.”

“She didn’t seem very angry,” says Castiel with a small shrug. She was more angry about Anael being in the house. Maybe anger over her son imbibing seemed trivial in the early hours of the morning. Though, human anger is very dynamic—it can either be short lived or prevail for an indefinite amount of time.

Dean shakes his head, tossing the hair from his eyes. “Not with _you,_ you ain’t her kid. You’re also the one who brought me home when I was passed out drunk...shit.”

“What is the worst she can do? She loves you.” Castiel leans down and steals one more kiss from Dean’s lips, which lasts longer than he originally intended. Dean captures his face with an open palm and then pushes their lips together hard, to which Castiel responds with a slight hum.

“Christ, Cas,” Dean breathes as they break away. “I’m gonna take a shower, then I’ll be down, okay?”

Earnest, Castiel smiles. “I will wake Sam, then.”

With a nod from Dean, Castiel rocks off the bed and goes to leave.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean calls from behind him.

Castiel turns, leans on the doorframe as he watches Dean peer at him from his bed. “Yes, Dean?”

“I just wanted you to know that, thanks to that kissing session, I’ll be taking a cold shower.” Dean smirks knowingly, an expression that causes heat to fills Castiel’s face.

The sexual connotations they—they frustrate Castiel, so he just says, “Oh,” before turning to leave. Very quickly.

The sound of Dean’s laughter carries through the door as Castiel closes it behind him, and he finds himself gnawing on his lower lip. The angel actively tries to stem his imagination, the flurry of thoughts that illustrate Dean beneath the pulsing water, teeth grinding together as his hand wraps around—

_No._ This body’s hormones, pleading or not, will not get the best of him. With all the mental strength he can muster, he goes to Sam’s room to wake up a younger, much less Dean-like Winchester. 

 


	10. Purity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t want to lose you,” Castiel realizes out loud, eyes shutting as he relives angels attacking him, demons setting their sights on the Winchesters. Castiel can feel the echoes of horror, at the thought of not only failing the world, but failing those for whom he has come to care most. “I would like to forget what I am, Dean, forget the circumstances under which we met. But I cannot. I cannot forget the danger which hangs over us all, if I do not succeed.”
> 
> “Cas, it doesn’t all fall on your shoulders,” Dean says quietly, pleadingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the name of this chapter, there isn't a whole lot of "pure" going on. Warning for light NC-17 action in this chapter. Also possible warning for underage intercourse depending on where you live since Dean is 17.
> 
> Warning for fluff, too, because I can.
> 
> Thank you for all comments on previous chapters! I am attempting to reply to them all tonight :)

Sam is nearly finished with breakfast when Dean barrels down the stairs and theatrically spins on the slick kitchen linoleum. Castiel sits beside the younger Winchester and grows tense in his seat when Dean makes a show of his entrance, because he is well aware that human balance is…. Unreliable. The last thing he wants is Dean to tumble, crack his skull or gain a concussion, when hope of the boys’ survival is significantly higher than it was a week previous.

As he saunters toward the table—wearing nothing but a pair of athletic shorts much like those he wears with his soccer uniform, by the way—he laughs. At Castiel’s concern.

“Sammy, you need to stop teaching Cas how to bitchface,” Dean says, and then Sam proceeds to throw an empty water bottle at his brother. Castiel’s concern dissolves into a quiet chuckle, and he takes a sip of his water, if only to hide his smile. Dean notices though, and frowns as he mutters, “I thought you were _my_ boyfriend.”

He carefully does not react to Dean’s nonchalant reference to Castiel being his _boyfriend—_ but it does cause his neck to flush red, warm and pleasant. “Mhm,” Castiel agrees with a hum, then sets his glass down slowly before raising his eyes up to Dean’s. “And you should be relieved that I care about the health of your body.”

“Ah, you do now?”

“Ugh! You’re disgusting!” Sam exclaims, pushing away from the table.

“Aren’t you going to finish you breakfast?” Castiel asks with pinched brows.

Sam looks at him, expression staunch with disbelief. “Um, no more appetite.” And then he leaves the kitchen altogether.

Disconcerted confusion is written all across the angel’s face.

Meanwhile, Dean has already made his way back into the kitchen and fixes a plate of breakfast, and sits down next to Castiel soon after. He takes a pancake—an _entire_ pancake—and shoves it into his mouth. And then his face contorts.

“You make these?” Dean mumbles with his mouth full.

“I did. Do they taste alright? I’ve never made pancakes before.” It wasn’t _hard—_ he did wait for the bubbles, but he was uncertain at which bubble diameter would be pertinent to flip the batter. And he didn’t know which golden hue indicated the pancakes completion. Without Mary’s guidance, it was a hazardous guessing game.

To Castiel’s surprise, and pleasure, Dean smiles around the half-chewed pancake. “Tastes great, I can taste the _love._ ”

Castiel returns the smile and knocks his arm against Dean’s shoulder, soft and affectionate. Dean does that sometimes, when he claims that Castiel is being ‘adorable.’ If a seventeen year-old boy can be adorable, then this is Dean being adorable. What does that word even _mean?_

Dean continues to eat, but carefully avoids the pancakes. Once the plate is nothing _but_ pancakes, he claims to be full, a claim to which Castiel raises an eyebrow. Dean doesn’t get _full_ , he’s a nonstop eating machine.

He does not get a chance to question Dean’s stomach, because then Mary is coming through the door to the garage.

Carrying a plastic bag, she throws her things on the kitchen counter and hangs her keys on a hook by the door. Then she comes to the kitchen table, a fierce glare directed at her oldest son.

“Dean Winchester,” she says evenly, planting her hands on her hips. Dean automatically flinches, sets down his fork with unsteady finality. “Feeling better? Partied out? I was worried _sick_ last night and then you come home _passed out_? What would have happened if Castiel wasn’t there to drag you home?”

“I’m sorry?” Dean tries, wincing as he tries to cover himself. Castiel regrets that Dean isn’t wearing a shirt, because Mary already is uncomfortable with their relationship as it is. At least Castiel is fully dressed (in Dean’s borrowed night clothes).

Unsatisfied, Mary looks irritably at Castiel, a brow raising before she tilts her head. _Leave,_ is written across her body language. So he does, physically, to satiate her.

He considers staying indefinitely, hidden by his power so he could remain close to Dean. He decides not to rather quickly, because he doesn’t necessarily enjoy listening to Dean being scolded. Negative reinforcement, he reminds himself, is an important facet of the human experience. Learning from one’s mistakes.

He discovers, not only that, but that he is physically discomforted when Dean flinches unto Mary’s verbal punishment. So he quickly spreads his wings and flies to the warehouse, where he is certain Anael will be waiting.

She is not. Castiel is alone, as far as he can tell. His powers aren’t so weak that he couldn’t sense any angel’s presence, at least in a place he is so familiar with. For a while, he waits. Pipes far above him quietly drip water to a familiar rhythm that soothes Castiel. He becomes so relaxed, that he finds himself sitting on a metal beam running through the industrial complex. It is not very thick, but he lies down on it, straining his abdominal muscles to keep from tumbling off to one side or the other.

He gazes up, looking through the holes in the roof, which allow sun to slice through the gaps. Bright yellow hits his hands; idly, he wriggles his fingers, watching the daylight play across the front of his hand, and then flips it so he can cup the sunlight in his palm. He does not realize he’s smiling, but he is overly aware of pure contentment. Overwhelmed by the sensation, he suddenly thinks that he should be sharing this burst of glorious humanity with Sam and Dean.

He closes his eyes and when he opens them, he is laying on Dean’s bed, hand still reaching up to clutch light that is no longer flickering across his palm. However, the warmth still moves across him like waves, and his smile does not waver until his eyes slowly flutter shut.

 

* * *

 

Color—indescribably, consuming and incredibly vast. It reminds Castiel of Heaven, except there are even _more_ colors! Shades and hues and _intensities_ that never existed, even with his enhanced angelic vision. Even a being composed of Grace and celestial purpose could not comprehend all these colors. The realization is brief, yet infinitesimal, and it’s comparable to the sensation of flying with damaged wings, minus the peril and pain and fear. It’s _falling,_ in the literal sense, his body in an entirely different segment of the universe than his mind.

The incredible sensation lasts milliseconds before the colors evaporate into black, and Castiel realizes he’s staring at the dark behind his eyelids.

He would have been content to do so, if it weren’t for the ray of warmth coming from his side. Castiel opens his eyes, finding Dean hovering over him with a sheepish smile. “When’d you get back?” he asks Castiel soothingly, while Castiel feels a tug on his hair. It isn’t uncomfortable, especially when he realizes Dean is combing his fingers through his dark hair.

Wonder floods Castiel’s eyes as his body warms at the affectionate touches. “I don’t know,” he answers uncertainly—and the uncertainty of how much time has passed sends a jolt of fright through him. He hasn’t lapsed into sleep in weeks, and he has never dreamt so vibrantly. Worrisome, he tries to sit up, but Dean’s hand presses into his shoulder.

“Well, Mom went out. I guess she needed to recover after tearing me a new one.”

“She did it because she’s concerned, because she loves you."

And Dean closes his eyes, guilty and pained. “I know. I just—I hate disappointing her. In some ways, she’s my best friend, because Dad’s always gone so it’s always been her, Sam, and me. I’ve had to be the man of the house. Us against the world, right?”

“Indeed,” says Castiel, wishing he could convey how true that was.

“But Cas,” Dean goes on. “I think the best thing about us is I—I feel like I don’t owe you anything. Shit, that sounds bad. Ugh.” He rubs his face, redness entering his cheeks, which makes Castiel incredibly attentive; much was to be revealed by Dean’s blush, even without words. “You ain’t my mom, you ain’t my brother. I don’t _have_ to give you anything—but, I gladly would, don’t get me wrong.”

“You see me as a choice, not an obligation?” Castiel supplies curiously.

“Yeah! I’m only seventeen, so yeah, my life choices have been pretty limited up to this point. But man, Cas, I’d choose you even if I had to sacrifice a thousand other choices.” Dean’s voice begins to break, dissolves into a whisper. It’s then Castiel registers the proximity of their lips. “You’re the best choice.”

Castiel can feel his heart racing beneath his sternum, affections roaring as goosebumps crawl across his skin. He wishes he could tell Dean how he feels _exactly_ the same. He has fallen in every sense of the word, even if not _completely_ in the literal sense, and it’s all his choice. He would choose Dean over a millennia in Heaven, over his power and his brothers and sisters above. He would prefer his own demise to Dean’s.

“Dean,” he whispers hopelessly, mouth oddly paralyzed in terms of its ability to speak.

Verbal communication is hopeless anyhow, because it’s not long after the breath of the human’s name does Dean fall forward and cover Castiel’s lips with his own.

An explosion of warmth wraps around them as Dean kisses him harder and harder. Castiel’s fingers are in Dean’s hair, combing softly through it before comfortably settling his hands on Dean’s shoulders, pulling him closer. Dean is complacent in the movement and positions himself over top of Castiel.

Their lips break and Dean gasps, and Castiel does not—he just keeps kissing Dean wherever the boy will have him. His jaw, his neck— _oh_ his neck, it tastes like the earth and sky, like _Dean_ , and Castiel suckles on the area until Dean lets out an high pitched whimper. Concerned, Castiel pulls away, panting lightly as he finds Dean’s eyes.

Affection and amusements fills Dean’s eyes. “You just gave me a fucking hickey,” he says in disbelief.

Castiel’s eyes flicker down to Dean’s neck; it’s wet with his own saliva, but a purplish oval is also quite obvious. “I apologize.” He doesn't mean it.

“I gotta make sure we match, alright? So everyone knows you did this to me. Want everyone to know you’re mine, and I’m yours.” Without delay, Dean cover’s Castiel’s neck and sucks hard, causing Castiel to writhe beneath the weight of Dean’s body.

His hips arch, and his crotch unwittingly grinds with Dean’s, causing both of their bodies to stutter. Castiel has touched himself there before, if only briefly before he willed away any erection that came about after heated kissing with Dean.

Castiel freezes as his stomach bursts with arousal. It’s with a blow of reality that the arousal sends Castiel into a panic.

“Dean,” Castiel bites out faster than he can suck it back in, pushing at Dean’s shoulder. What happens next is immediate: Dean pulls away, almost completely off Castiel. The absence of lips and warmth leaves Castiel feeling cold and empty, but then again he cannot proceed while flightless feel courses through his veins.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says quickly, careful not to touch Castiel except on his wrist, where he lays his own hand. “I went too fast. I didn’t even ask I just—shit, tell me I didn’t fuck this up too.”

The fear is numbed for a moment by the guilt etched into Dean’s features, so Castiel manages to shake his head. He even goes as far to lean up into Dean’s space, and kiss him earnestly on the side of his mouth. Dean’s body relaxes; worry fades slightly from his features.

“You wanna talk about it?” Dean asks after a pregnant silence.

Instead of answering, Castiel must first trace the fear. Perhaps humanity is simply making him skittish like a small, helpless creature; but no, the fear is holds much more power than over his _body._ The same fear has driven him to conceal his romantic feelings, to conceal the truth from all around him. The palpitations, the un-angel-like sweat beading on his forehead all web to an epicenter, where fear flourishes and causes Castiel to will away his humanity in order to silence it.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Castiel realizes out loud, eyes shutting as he relives angels attacking him, demons setting their sights on the Winchesters. Castiel can feel the echoes of horror, at the thought of not only failing the world, but failing those for whom he has come to care most. “I would like to forget what I am, Dean, forget the circumstances under which we met. But I cannot. I cannot forget the danger which hangs over us all, if I do not succeed.”

“Cas, it doesn’t all fall on your shoulders,” Dean says quietly, pleadingly.

“Yes it does Dean! All of it falls on my shoulders and if I cannot bear the weight—” Castiel does not finish that thought. He pulls away from Dean, elaborative words paralyzed on his tongue. “You don’t understand.”

“No,” Dean snaps back, grabbing Cas’s shoulder and forces their eyes to meet, though Castiel wearily tries to look anywhere else _except_ Dean’s probing eyes. “ _You_ don’t understand.”

How could Castiel, an infinitely knowledgeable angel _not_ understand the weight of the apocalypse? His lip curls, because he is simply strung too tightly _not_ to be petulant. “Tell me then.”

Quietly, yet gruff and firm, Dean replies, “It’s us against the world. _Us_.”

Without permission, though he doesn’t fight it, Castiel’s body relaxes. He melts, somehow finding his way into Dean’s arms, into a hug that wasn't offered, but is willingly given. Castiel presses his lips into Dean’s neck, only resting his lips against the mark he let before. He wants those minutes back, the minutes where he could pretend he was human and not accountable for so many lives all at once.

But, perhaps, he wasn’t alone in carrying the burden.

He could _tell_ Dean—tell Dean as much as he has told Mary. Perhaps ignorance is not the key, despite a thousand years of being taught otherwise. He has crossed this path many times before, but he knows it is foolish to underestimate the strength which humans possesses. What is one more rule broken, if for a good reason.

But it is a selfish reason, to tell Dean—to shatter his world of normality even more, to spread the burden from Castiel’s shoulders on to Dean’s, to Sam’s, and even Mary’s.

Logic dictates that selfish reason is no good reason.

To share the weight of the world, it is one offer from Dean that Castiel will not accept.

“Cas?” Dean asks after a few minutes of their silent embrace. His hand glides up Cas’s back, rubbing the tense muscles—knots, really—and coaxing them into relaxation. “Don’t cry, man.”

Cry? Oh, so the warm wetness spreading across his cheeks, across Dean’s neck, those are tears. Castiel opens his mouth to apologize but a wretched sound comes from his lips. He suddenly feels _sickness,_ that’s the only way he can describe the churning of his stomach, the tightening of his throat.

Castiel doesn’t know if he started it or if Dean did, but they are kissing now, through the hardly-contained sobs coming from Castiel’s lips. There is something bitter between their lips, or maybe that is just Castiel knowing that their touches, their kisses, very well maybe the last he ever knows.

Resentment suddenly boils beneath his skin; how dare this burden be laid upon him? Castiel was never a hero of Heaven, but the one heroic thing he ever did was in spite of heaven’s orders. Castiel is not a savior, though has found himself saved in the loving arms of an actual _family,_ in the grace of a boy he has known longer than any other human, in some way or another.

Every antipathetic thought is quelled by a kiss, by a touch. Dean’s hands explore where Castiel has seldom touched: his stomach, his chest, his hips. Calloused fingers rub every inch beneath his shirt, and Castiel permits him even more skin as he wriggles out of borrowed sweatpants.

Castiel hears whispers, caressing words that plead Cas, “let me take care of you,” and he is not about to argue. He lays back, accepts the warm lips as they whisper against his naval. The last resentful thought that passes through his mind is directed toward God: _why have you made me be alone so long?_

It’s short-lived and utterly silenced when warmth encloses skin that has long gone untouched, a million sensations rippling through Castiel’s body like a tidal wave consuming his existence. Solitude is nothingness, compared to this; he may have once rejoiced in a century of muted silence in Heaven, but he cannot return to that after capturing all this unadmonished sound.

Before he lets the precipice consume him, he reaches for Dean’s body.

“Not alone,” his voice grates, eyes wild and desperate. “Us, both of us. Together.”

Dean licks a line of saliva across both of his lips, uses the slick to smooth the contact of their mouths again. The kiss masks the sound of Dean rustling out of his shorts, so Castiel is aware of their mutually exposed states when he feels hard warmth pressed against his own. Dean snaps his hips once, then twice, while holding their lengths against each other. The friction, it could kill even an angel, and it nearly does.

Their eyes meet as Castiel reaches a hand between them. He covers a hand over Dean’s, holding their erections steady against each other as Dean relentlessly wriggles, hot pants washing over Castiel's cheeks.

Castiel falls off the edge, into the unknown. And, for a moment when he shuts his eyes, infinite color explodes in the darkness and fills him with flames and the calm of water, too. He feels Dean seize above him, and feels the need to capture whatever comes out of Dean’s lips within his own. So he kisses Dean, kisses him like there will never be another(and there may not) and swallows the moan that makes Castiel’s body feel inexorable, inexhaustible, like an _endless flame_.

In the moments that follow, when they lay, and kiss lazily and Dean cleans them both, the flame does not settle, does not go out. It burns, and will burn as long as Castiel is alive. And perhaps, when he is gone, the flame will burn somewhere in heaven, a place where an angel’s love for a human is _cherished,_ not repudiated.

 

* * *

 

After Dean falls asleep, Castiel watches. He is fascinated by each minute twitch, the flutter of Dean’s eyes behind his lids. If he were awake and caught Castiel staring with such an unbridled fervor, he certainly would have deemed the behavior “creepy.” But he cannot stop, not even to blink, because Dean is so relaxed, so beautiful. If there was any doubt in Castiel’s mind about his love for Dean, it would be silenced now.

Very suddenly, the twist of their intertwined ankles is not enough touch for Castiel. He never remembers, before taking this vessel, longing for touch so much. The need is ingrained on his very Grace. Though he is aware of the biological need for humans to crave and be granting touch—thus is the evolutionary purpose for intimacy—he cannot come upon a reason that he has always been so vulnerable to the desire. Perhaps it is not encoded into a body like hunger or need to sleep. It may run deeper, may be an instinct in _all_ God’s creations.

Such as a touch of one Grace to another, like the comfort Anael’s touch to his cheek always gave him.

Though there is no denying that it was Dean, and only him, that awoke the desire for intimacy, for _seamlessness._

He indulges the desire—he’s indulging every other one, so why not one more?—and presses his palm against Dean’s cheek. He shivers at the touch, but is not roused from sleep, and a smile drifts onto Castiel’s lips. His fingertips play at Dean’s hairline, rubbing so softly as not to wake up the little human, and he wishes he were strong enough to enter Dean’s dreams. If he could, maybe Dean would be in that same, autumn-warm field, eager to teach Castiel about what it means to be human. Months ago, their relationship was nothing more than unspoken desire and anxious friendship. And Castiel wasn’t very human at the time, either. If Castiel were back in that dream again, he would have embraced Dean when he called them _boyfriends._ He would have understood that it’s what Dean wanted, and not just some anomaly of his subconscious. 

Though he does not think that he would have initiated anything, simply because of the internal conflict within him. Castiel _still_ wrestles with his desires and his responsibilities. At first he could rationalize being with Dean since he had to _be_ with him in order to protect him, anyways. But can he rationalize _this?_ They are nearly naked, tasting of each other, their scents mixed and their bodies knotted together like rope.

Castiel hears a light flutter of wings, which Dean probably wouldn’t even hear if awake. The angel twitches his hand away,moving as quickly as he can without waking the boy beside him.

“Calm, Castiel,” says Anael, laying a hand against his bare shoulder as he climbs up from bed. She casts a speculative glance down his body, and raises an eyebrow. “Or can you not, in your hormonal state.”

The lash of judgmental words puts Castiel off, dissolves the warm sentiment he held toward his sister in arms only moments earlier. He wears his displeasure on his downturned expressions. “What is it?” he asks in a murmur, lowering his voice suddenly as he peers over his shoulder. Dean is sound asleep, but he could wake at any moment, if they continued conversing here. “We must speak elsewhere.”

Anael squeezes his shoulder, almost painfully hard, and says, “so be it.”

Castiel shivers almost immediately as they stand in the all-too familiar warehouse. Castiel wears nothing but undergarments, so he accesses the limited power of his Grace to retrieve his coat. “Could you have not taken us somewhere with heating? Or where it was summer?”

Anael tilts her head. “I wasn’t aware it mattered. Unless—” She pauses, brows pressing together. It all seems less than genuine, to Castiel’s confusion and _annoyance._ “Are you _cold_ Castiel?”

His eyes narrow as Castiel pulls on the lapels of his coat, shielding his chest from the cold. “Don’t ask stupid questions,” he rasps.

As if surrendering, Anael raises her palms. “Fine, fine. I’ll let you get back to Dean Winchester’s warm bed, as soon as you enlighten me. What is our course of action, regarding the Apocalypse?” 

She tacks on the last three words as clarification, as if Castiel forgot about their mission entirely. He twists his lips at the assumption, but says nothing of her flippant behavior. “I’ve given thought to our timeline,” he says slowly, because he truly has, and he wishes he had more time to deliberate a more generous timeline, but he does not. “And I believe we must lure Lucifer and Michael to...to a place where minimal casualties will occur. And there I shall put Lucifer away, and hopefully Michael.”

“Hopefully,” she repeats, and begins to pace a circle around Castiel. He wonders if it’s intentional, the body language—as if she wishes to ensnare him. He does not like it, that much he is sure of. “Michael will not take a vessel, unless you have changed your mind about Dean Winchester—”

“I have not. And I will not. That is not a possibility.” His voice is frigid and firm. “I assume that, if impatient enough, he will make due. Just as Lucifer has in his vessel.”

“Quite an assumption, considering this plan has _one shot_ of success. We cannot play a guessing game.”

“That’s all this mission has been, is a guessing game!” Castiel bites out the words, their fervor and strength causing his chest to tighten. “Will Dean trust me? Will Sam say yes to Lucifer before I have the chance to tell them the truth? Will I _live_ to see another day before Zachariah, or _Death,_ smites me? I haven’t the strength to protect myself much longer, Anael. I become more and more human every day—and not simply because of my relationship with Sam and Dean. It is because I am _severed_ from Heaven. You maintain more power because you _stole_ some before you fled. Is your existence not a guessing game? Will they track your stolen power, your Grace, and smite you where you stand? Will they?”

Silence hangs over the both of them, smothering away Castiel’s breath more than the cold ever could. He watches his breath, a fog in the small space between them. Anael’s eyes are wide and empty, more gray than their usual blue. Her lips open, but words catch unusually fast on her tongue before her gray expression blooms with angry color. “Then you must hope you guess correctly, that Michael will be foolish enough to take a vessel that isn’t _true._ ” She turns her eyes to the side, missing Castiel’s grimace as it flickers over his features. “Because Gabriel said there is no way to rid the world, nor Heaven, of Michael. Not without pushing him into the Pit along with Lucifer.”

Castiel thought as much, but his shoulders still hang at the insight. “Then we must set a date. I think the Winter Solstice is the most appropriate.Earth and Hell are closest together at that time, I have been told.”

“Because of the darkness,” Anael inserts, agreement in her tone. “So we will use the rings to open the portal. Did Death provide a spell to open it?”

“He did.”

“And?”

The question in her voice requests trust, trust that he has already given to her willingly—in _loads._ “I cannot tell you the spell. Death said that no angel should know it, and that I wasn’t to tell anyone.” When one promises secrecy to Death himself, one must keep that promise. As if his demise wasn’t almost nearly certain

Anael nods, lips pressed together. “Understandably. Angels are as corrupt as humans, who knows what one angel might do with the knowledge of opening Lucifer’s prison.”

“Indeed,” says Castiel, relieved that she understand and doesn’t take the secret personally. He even allows himself to smile briefly. “I believe we can succeed. The odds have been very much against us from the start, and our survival up to this point is unprecedented.” He reaches out, places his hand over her shoulder. “We will save the world, and then we shall save our home.” Even though Earth has becomemore of a home than Heaven ever was, he will always love Heaven. His first home.

With a smile, Anael covers a hand over Castiel’s. Her skin is cold to the touch, and Castiel flinches. This amuses her and an even larger smile spreads across her thin lips as she reaches to cup his cheeks firmly in both hands. This is the affection from Anael that he has always adored, reveled in. He does not anticipate her lips against his left cheek, and then his right. “We will do what must be done, Castiel.And we will succeed.”

 

* * *

 

Dean’s breathing is an anchor, when the world seems to be falling away. Castiel stands at the foot of the bed, listening to the intake and outtake, the exchange of carbon dioxide for oxygen; respiration in its simplest, most venerable form. He lay on his side, chest rising and falling into the empty space at his side, where Castiel usually slept. As an angel, Castiel is endeared that the human has left a space for him; a reverent invitation. The human part of him, which is quickly becoming the majority and not the feared minority, wants to leap into the sheets. They probably still smell like...like sex. Sweet to the smell, bitter to taste. The thought of invoking another litany of curses and praises off of Dean’s lips, merely by making efficient use of his palm’s surface area… yes, that was a very appealing thought.

He considers it, but decides that he is more or less enraptured by Dean sleeping. There was time, some at least, to indulge in both of their shared desires.

Castiel’s train of thought is disrupted when he hears Dean’s breathing stutter. The relaxed bow of his lips turns into a grimace, brows pinching. Castiel lays his hand against the foot of the bed, feeling Dean’s ankle beneath. The contact shakes Dean even further from unconsciousness, but he does at least stop frowning. The human’s breathing takes on a more concentrated rhythm, signaling wakefulness.

“Mhm,” he mumbles following a seemingly long-overdue sigh. Dean’s entire body bows, stretches; his bones crack and his arm slaps across the empty side of the bed. Upon feeling nothing, Dean’s body seizes. His fingers grope at the empty sheets, and his expression, even in the dark, glows with an indistinguishable type of pain.

And then his green eyes open.

As soon as he finds Castiel standing at the foot of the bed, he slides back against the headboard, seemingly afraid.

“It’s me,” Castiel says, and he gives Dean’s ankle a comforting squeeze. He forgot he was still touching him through the comforter.

“Yeah it is,” Dean grumbles sleepily. “Why’re you in that coat? You leavin?”

There is a note of disappointment in his voice.

Instead of answering, Castiel lets go and walks around the bed. He pushes his coat from his shoulders, slides the fabric to the floor and then—then he climbs back into the bed. There is wonderment in Dean’s eyes, a burst of light that’s unprecedented in the dark. Castiel basks in it as Dean’s arms capture him quickly. Arms wind around Castiel’s back, resting at his shoulder blades as Dean pulls them together. Chest to chest. Castiel, on the other hand, has no idea what to do with his arms. Right now they are pinned between their bodies, having no choice really but to go _up._ So he follows his instincts, his _indulgence_ , and cups Dean’s face with both hands. Gentle, tender, Dean is the one that presses forward to cover Castiel’s lips with his own.

It’s a simple kiss: short and chaste, but filled with words that cannot begin to be said aloud. Castiel has never felt love siphoned through his lips, but he is sure that is what is happening now. When they part, Dean gazes at him, puzzled and breathless, but also examining Castiel like he was a riddle. For once, Castiel felt as if he was under examination. And _Dean_ told him it was “creepy” to stare. He huffs, licking his lips as one pulls up into a half-smirk. “You are thinking...very hard,” he trails off, coloring at the awkward phrasing of his observation. “What are you thinking?”

“I… I dunno.” Dean’s lower lip migrates between his teeth. He chews on it, leaving small impressions in the skin. Castiel migrates his thumb from its resting place on Dean’s cheek and rolls his lip. He only does it because it would be a shame for Dean to mark up his lips, injure them. They are plump and full and he does not want any future kisses to be painful. 

Instead of a question, or a glare, which is what Castiel expected after the gesture, Dean opens his lips further, and Castiel thumb presses inside before he can pull back. He inhales sharply as Dean’s tongue brushes against the pad of his finger, rough and wet against his calloused skin. And then Dean’s mouth suckles him in, a moan vibrating around his thumb that causes a slow burn to come up his pelvis, into his stomach, and right beneath his ribs.

“ _Dean,”_ Castiel hisses and pulls back his arm like his hand has been burned, and the sound of Dean’s laughter fills the space between them, a cocky grin playing on his lips. Heat fills Castiel’s face as it occurs to him that Dean was _trying_ to get a rouse out of him. “You are...maniacal.” Admittedly, Castiel pouts and averts his eyes, as if not being able to see Dean would in turn mean Dean couldn’t see him.

“I have no clue what that means, but you are pretty horny.” Dean huffs in amusement. “Heh, _virgins_.”

What Dean does not know is that Castiel has watched humanity for centuries. Even though his observations have been purely clinical and perhaps more inquisitive in the past, he still knows all the inner workings. “Inexperience is irrelevant,” Castiel replies cooly. “As you know.”

“Hey now, I ain’t a virgin. Wasn’t a virgin, I mean. Just—I ain’t never touched a dick that wasn’t my own. It was a lot different than I thought it would be though, but not _foreign._ ”

Unimpressed, Castiel cocks a brow. “Nothing about sex is foreign to me, Dean.” Unintentionally, the words fall from his lips in a rasp and Dean’s eyes haze. “I see—right now. Your pupils are dilating. Human biology dictates that this is the _excitement phase_ of sexual release. Blood is traveling quickly between your legs, engorging your growing erection. Arousal.”

“Fucking nerd,” Dean curses and squints. “But you’re wrong, I already had this piece of morning wood. 

“So you are not aroused then?”

“Nope.” He draws his tongue across his lips, and Castiel sees the doubt in them “Now stop talking like you just fell out of a bad porno.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was,” Castiel replies earnestly. As teenagers, they are both ruled by hormones at times, he supposes. Aside from that underlying buzz in his skin, the swell of heat between his legs that always persists, Castiel is content laying next to Dean, their faces so close and their feet touching. Castiel’s feet are cold, so he nudges his toes into the crease of Dean’s legs.

“Shit, you’re freezing!”

“And you’re warm.”

Dean rolls his eyes and pulls away. Castiel almost— _almost—_ whines at the absence of body heat, the feeling of _alone_ pulsing through his subconscious. He is almost completely naked, spare his boxers, and the room _is_ cold. Once Dean has rolled completely out of the bed, he saunters tiredly across the room to the window. He shifts the blinds and curses under his breath. “Window’s open,” he throws over his shoulder.

That would explain the cold, Castiel supposes, but any further thoughts are quelled when Dean is suddenly climbing right back into bed. Some fearful part of him rejoices, for reasons he doesn’t understand. He is quite accustomed to being alone. Or was—he used to be alone: in heaven, watching over humans. He had his garrison, his brothers and sisters, the shared consciousness. But closeness, skin against skin, is something so new that Castiel is sure he will never tire of.

Dean does not lay down next to him, as he was expecting, but throws the sheets and the heavy comforter back completely. Castiel flinches at the pinch of cold air that hits his legs, but the cold immediately begins to fade when Dean lays a hand on his ankle. 

His eyes raise to meet Castiel’s. “Sit up.” Castiel obeys and scoots up the bed so that a pillow cushion the space between his lower back and the headboard, question in his eyes instead of coming off his lips. As an answer, Dean rubs a hand over the bottom of Castiel’s foot. “I’m giving you a foot rub.”

“Oh,” Castiel breathes, dumbfounded as he watches Dean perform this...this act. It seems to be filled with clinical concentration. Dean’s brows are knitted together, his lips pursed as he diligently kneads at the muscles around and under Castiel’s feet. Traditionally (as in, last time Castiel was on Earth… during the Roman Empire’s reign) the feet are considered sacred, and any massage or bath given unto them are equated to worship. Or, they were. Castiel is not sure. At first glance, it merely seems that Dean is rubbing his feet because Castiel complained that they were cold, and Dean would rather give them a thorough heating than Castiel stick his toes up against his summer-warm skin.

Though, Castiel quickly begins to doubt that is the case, when Dean begins to use his entire hands, not just his fingers, to rub all along the arches of his feet. And he does not stop there, once he feels that Castiel’s feet have been adequately attended to, he kneads up one of Castiel’s ankles and leans down to kiss a bare knee.

“I missed waking up next to you,” Dean admits quietly, looking up as his lips linger on the ball of Castiel’s patella. His warm, low voice vibrates the hairs on Castiel’s legs as he goes on, “Kind of not… a cool thing to do, after sex. Thought you regretted it.”

Castiel shakes his head, blood cold at the thought of regretting a single moment from their encounter. “I didn’t,” he says, voice rushed and harsh. He takes a breath, releasing it slowly. “I don’t,” he repeats.

“That’s good.” And Dean rolls his cheek so that his chin is just resting on Castiel’s knee, watching him.

Raw and exposed, Castiel reaches for him. It’s not natural, he’s not used to _executing_ the touching in this relationship, but once he’s clasped underneath Dean’s arms, he pulls the boy up next to him and Dean doesn’t resist. Castiel might not be proactive in touching Dean, but he thinks that prying a word or two from those always-sealed lips is not a large favor.

“You seem troubled, Dean,” he says quietly, remaining calm as Dean curls up at his side, both of them leaning against the headboard. “Because I left.”

Dean shrugs. “It’s nothing, just. Like I said, fucking and running just leaves a bad taste in people’s mouth.” Castiel tries to get Dean to look at him by leaning down, but Dean averts contact by reaching down to retrieve the sheets to pull over them both.

“Are you angry? If so, I’m sorry.” Castiel didn’t _want_ to leave. It was Anael, it was the _apocalypse_. “ _Dean_ ,” he intones, desperation beginning to burn away at his resolve to stay calm.

“I’m not angry at you, I’m just—ugh, I can’t explain it right,” Dean huffs.

“You can try, and I’ll listen. I can’t ever judge you.” The offer is sound and calm, unlike his voice was before.

But Dean still considers it, or maybe he is just considering his words. His mouth works and one of his hands plays nervously with the edge of the blanket.

“That was me. The guy who fucks and runs. I typically consider myself a pretty good guy; I take care of my brother and I volunteer with my Mom and I am a damn good soccer player, but I never thought about the sex...the way I would just, I don’t know, woo a girl—take her out to dinner, maybe a nice long drive in the Impala, tell her she’s more beautiful than the stars in the sky—and just say whatever to get her to...let her guard down. Let me in. Let me...get off.

“And, I guess I thought it was some cruel joke. I wake up and you’re not here. It’s God’s punishment for me having sex with lots of girls and only ever really sticking with one or two. I actually get to be with someone I really like and they leave me, like I’ve left so many others.” Dean wipes his face, palming at his eyes tiredly. “And I guess I should be more worried about freaking angels and demons out to kill me and my little brother, but at the end of the day I feel...safe. Because you’re—I don’t know what it is, you make me feel safe.”

“Dean…” Castiel tries to find Dean’s wayward eyes, presses his palm to his cheek and tilts their gazes to meet.

“But then you were gone, and I wasn’t safe. I wasn’t anything special to those girls, but you’re—you’re my, my best friend. Boyfriend. No, that doesn’t even cut it, I don’t…”

Their foreheads press together, because Dean needs this—needs the touch of Castiel’s skin against his own. In fact they both need it, but Castiel does not vocalize that each and every affection is returned. How can an angel even fathom feeling most safe in the arms of a human boy? Dean is not excited when he sighs and his shoulders fall, their breaths mixing and their hips pressing flush. He opens his eyes to gaze at Castiel, miserable and guilt-ridden.

“What did I even do to deserve you?” Dean rasps, almost too quiet to hear.

Castiel’s entire chest throbs with pain, mimicking that which is spread across Dean’s expressions. “You are young, Dean,” he murmurs. “You are allowed some mistakes, some misgivings. You did not force anyone to do anything they didn’t already want to, did you?” Dean considers the question and then shakes his head. “Then you did nothing unforgivably wrong. And there is no such thing as God punishing you. Certainly not for something of such trifles. You are a _good_ man. And you are human.”

“Why do you have to be so smart?” Dean says after a short silence. “You know all the right shit to say to keep me from being mad. I can’t ever stay mad around you, man.”

“Well, I suppose it works in my favor," Castiel replies, allowing a smile to grow, warm on his lips at Dean’s latent praise.

And, as he’d hoped, Dean smiles right back, small but genuine. His cheeks also redden, which makes Castiel’s lips broaden. “Cas, the other night. I said I wanted you.” His smile falters slightly. “I just want you to know, last night isn’t what I meant. Not completely, I mean. I want _you._ ”

A moment of confusion, and then realization dawns upon Castiel. “I understand.” A comfortable silence falls over them, and Castiel recognizes that the words beneath words are being spoke loudest when nothing is said at all. It is the closest that Dean may come to vocalizing the powerful emotion that he _knows_ surges between them. “I want you, too.”

 

* * *

 

It is a brisk Sunday morning, the fresh and vivid with cotton-white clouds filling the sky. And from this blue sky falls flakes. The sight inspires awe in the Winchester household. As Dean and Castiel descend down the stairs into the foyer, both Sam and Mary stand in the formal dining room’s bay window, watching white cover the front yard and the driveway. At first Castiel does not understand, when Dean rushes away from Castiel’s side to push between Sam and his mother. Castiel watches them, detached and curiously observant of the manner in which Mary’s face lights up even more at the sight of her eldest coming to join them. She presses a kiss to his cheek—Dean is taller than her, so she has to reach on the tips of her toes for a moment—and then leans her cheek on his broad shoulder.

“So I looked it up,” Sam says suddenly, startling the silence. “And there hasn’t been a snow in Lawrence in fourteen years.”

“You were seven months old,” Mary mused aloud. “I remember, your first Christmas. Your dad got us a real tree that year, not a plastic replica.” Her lips twitch at the memory and she looks at Sam fondly. “You and Dean made a mess of it. Dean would tear of the branches—the ones he could reach.” Mary nudges Dean playfully with her elbow, perhaps considering the irony now that Dean was taller than her. “And Sam would _chew_ on the pine needles. Somehow you kept him from swallowing them, I guess.”

“Heh, I think I actually remember you yelling at me for that,” Dean murmurs, squinting out the window. “I remember dad playing with me. Taught me how to make snowballs.”

Sam’s lips twist, his excitement falling away just as quickly as the snow fell from the sky. “I can count on one hand the number of Christmases with dad I remember.” Sam’s shoulders fall.

“Hey,” Dean throws an arm around Sam’s shoulder and pulls him in, causing the younger one to lose his balance and clutch at his older brother for purchase. Dean chuckles and ruffles his hair, helping Sam regain his balance after catching his breath. “He does his best.”

Castiel listens in rapt attention, because he has never heard Dean talk about his absent father, let alone with any kind of fondness. His line of work, toiling away on oil rigs for months at a time, takes John Winchester away from his sons, his wife. Dean and Sam have both vocalized resentment at this point, but he thinks Dean may be altering his behavior for Mary’s sake. Mary Winchester loves her husband greatly, based on the longing gazes out the window over the sink while she watches dishes, or when her eyes ever fall upon a family photo.

Dean is _loyal_ , in essence. To his father, and especially his mother. It’s not a realization it is an affirmation of what Castiel already knows.

“I know,” Sam says with a huff, resistant to agree with his brother. “We just don’t really do much, holiday-wise. We do the tree-and-presents thing, but when dad’s not here…”

“I do not put in a big effort,” Mary offers, nodding in understanding. “That’s my fault. Just because I miss your dad doesn’t mean I can cheap out on Christmas. What if…what if we did something different this year. We could get a tree—a _real_ tree.” Her lips curve. “I’d even let you boys pick it out.”

“That’d be great!” Sam says, shoulders suddenly lifting as he pulls out his brother’s arms. As he moves, his eyes catch sight of Castiel standing quietly behind the three. His smile falters and he squints at Castiel. “Um, what do you think Cas? You wanna pick out a tree with us?”

Dean whips around, meeting Castiel’s eyes very suddenly with interest. Mary is the last to turn around, not exactly pleased that Castiel was sharing the room with him, but she wasn’t glaring per her usual behavior. Instead, they were all sharing the same curious expression.

“I do not know criteria one uses to choose a tree, as I’ve never celebrated Christmas…”

“What?” Dean gapes at him, disbelief painting his features. “You’ve never celebrated Christmas?”

Castiel shakes his head once, before realizing that both Sam and Dean were silently demanding an explanation. Mary raised her eyebrows, challenging Castiel’s ability to lie. It was not an innate talent that the angel possessed, but he had learned to do it moderately well. “My family was devout, as you know. The birth of Christ was not to be celebrated by perpetuating American commercialism, but with fasting and prayer.”

“God, that sounds really…” Sam trails off with a frown

“Shitty,” Dean finishes, lip curling in disgust. Mary half-heartedly mumbles something about _language,_ but Dean ignores it and turns to her with a determined gleam in his eyes. “Mom, he’s never even celebrated Christmas. We gotta go all out this year, since he’s living with us. He can’t go without a real Christmas.”

“Dean’s right, we should do more! We should do a Christmas movie marathon, make reindeer food trail mix like we used to, light up the fireplace and roast marshmallows!” Sam is giddy as the themed ideas spew from his mouth. He clears his throat. “For Cas.”

“For all of us,” Dean amends. He waves Castiel over to him, beckoning with his hand. Uncertain, Castiel steps forward slowly, wedging himself between Sam and Dean comfortably. The window is just a stride away, and he curiously raises his hand to the glass. It’s cold to the touch, and snow swirls faster and blurs the landscape. As the white grows thicker, it becomes easier to see his reflection faintly in the glass. And he sees Dean’s reflection too, and his heart warms when Dean smiles, and they all watch the snow consume...everything.

 

* * *

 

Castiel determines that it is not due to nationwide weather patterns that the cold blisters the state of Kansas, nor that the pattern has resulted in a blizzard unseen in the state in _decades_. It is the angels raising this storm, trapping the town of Lawrence under white. It is early December, and they still have school on Monday, but Dean and Sam begin a mantra of _snow day, snow day_ before they even eat breakfast.

He wonders what the angels are playing at. They cannot breach the premises; Castiel has already checked the wards Anael remade and they are as in place as they ever were, marked by her blood and her Grace instead of his own. They must know that their plan to lure Sam and Dean into their destinies as vessels is failing miserably, and this ruse of a storm is supposed to intimidate Castiel.

It does not. His powers may be dwindling, but he feels as strong as ever. He is comforted by the knowledge of possessing a plan, however uncertain its results may be. His odds of survival are higher than they ever were, and the world actually may have a chance when all is said and done, at least for a few millennia. Somewhere down the line, the seals may break again. A Winchester may say yes to an archangel. Then, all of this will be for nothing.

Except, that isn’t true. To say saving the world this year means nothing means that the humans that walk the earth today mean nothing. And that—that is blasphemous. Castiel _loves_ some of those humans more than he himself can fathom. Saving their lives, and _only_ their lives, would be worth having his work unraveled a hundred or a thousand years later.

The snow piles upon itself, leaving no trace that grass ever existed beneath. When Dean goes outside to check the mail, he comes back inside, shivering and his pants soaked to the knee.

“There is a _shit ton_ of snow,” Dean says between his teeth clattering. Castiel goes over to him with a blanket, replacing his wet, snowy jacket with it. His jeans are also soaked to the knee. Castiel wants to envelop Dean with his arms too, but he also is considerate that Dean sincerely wants to flop down on the couch instead of standing cold and in a blanket in the foyer.

And Dean does; he throws himself onto the couch and Castiel follows behind, sitting on the love seat adjacent to it. “You should have dressed warmer,” Castiel chides quietly.

“I have freaking _long johns_ on, you dick,” Dean mumbles and curls his legs into his chest beneath the blanket.

“Are they wet?”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Yeah…”

“You’ll only get colder if you keep wet clothes on,” Castiel continues, standing up. “I will get you something dry.”

Dean’s brows knit together, short-wired annoyance quickly replaced by something warmer, even though his teeth still clatter. “Man, you don’t have to do that.”

He silences Dean with a smile. Castiel is learning quickly about how to show that he _cares._ When someone wants something, especially if they are a _Winchester_ , they often do not ask. But you can see it in them, what they want, what they need. And when one sees that, it cannot be ignored. “But I want to.”

 

* * *

 

 

It isn't until the following Thursday that the roads have cleared enough for schools and businesses in Lawrence to open their doors again. Castiel has already readied himself for school when he goes outside. Dean and Sam are still lazily trudging around the house, satiating their hunger and other humanly urges. He is part glad and part envious that he hasn’t feel victim to those urges; it seems only rational that an angel’s pride would prohibit him from actually _wanting_ to live as a human. However, he sees Sam and Dean and even Mary go about, _living_ instead of merely existing. They do not fill spaces, cracks in the universe his Father created long ago. They consume, they deplete, and _live_.

Instead, Castiel plays his part. He wears his own angelically-cleaned uniform clothing—and he _tried_ to walk outside in the light brown coat he is so accustomed to, but Mary informed him that it would be suspicious to walk around in a “trench coat” as she called it, when the temperatures are well below freezing. Castiel is only minorly affected by the cold, and his degree of reaction varies by time of day and presence...with Dean. Dean wears his shield thin, ignites his Grace in humanizing ways, to his surprise. Castiel long decided that humans exist in such a way that angels must learn from, but part of Castiel ponders the possibility of humans being the _key_ to the humanity buried inside angels.

And that _is_ a true, that each angel has the innate ability to be human. To _fall,_ and not in fire and ash, but in brilliant, all-encompasing flames. He has seen the ignition of humanity in Anael, in himself. The key to self-actualization is humanity, which is why it is all the more precious—all the more _important_ to preserve.

As Castiel contemplates all of this, he takes his first steps out into the cold. He stretches his gloved fingers (and does not like that they inhibit his dexterity) and takes a careful step onto the sidewalk. It is slick, not quite frozen over. There is a crunch beneath his shoes. He breathes in the heavy scent of burning gasoline and salt. Salt is poured down across the sidewalk that attaches the front porch to the driveway, which initially leaves him at a loss.

Castiel bends down to touch the thick grains of rock salt, pinches one between his thumb and forefinger. He squints at it speculatively, wondering if Mary suspected demons being an immediate threat. Then he finds himself wondering if she has forgotten that salt lines (not that this disarray could even qualify as a line) do not work with demons.

Dean finds him studying the salt not long after he lowered into his crouch. Upon seeing Castiel's confusion, he patiently explains that salt helps deter ice from forming. A brief moment of thought and Castiel finds the chemistry behind Dean's explanation sound. He lets the salt fall from his grasp. Just as he rises, Castiel’s body hitches at the sensation of something hitting the center of his back— _hard._ Considering all the layers his is wearing, the mass that struck him was not something _small_ , nor was the force gentle. He turns quickly, very much ready to manifest his blade before forgetting that Mary still had it.

“Whoa, man, don’t kill me,” Dean laughs, face pinched at his eyes. He feigns fear, while his hands roll snow and eyes between his gloved palms. “I didn’t do it.”

“You did.” Castiel takes a step backward, careful not to slip on the sidewalk, but a patch of ice hitches his heel and his balance wavers. “You threw snow at me.”

“ _Snowball,_ ” Dean amends with a breath, steam rolling off his lips. "Man aren't you from the North?"

"Um, yes."

Dean rolls his eyes. “Listen, I ain't seen much snow before. Well, we gotta take advantage of this before it melts away. So.” He pats his hands together and then shows the wedge of round-and-white laying in his palm. Castiel registers Dean’s body moving quickly but makes no move even as his torso twists and his arm is thrown back. He watches the flick of Dean’s wrist as those lithe, covered fingers release the _snowball_ and it hurdles toward Castiel’s chest.

It hits him in the stomach, exploding particles of water and ice and _dust._

Castiel narrows his eyes, cocking a brow. “Advantage, you say?”

Graceful and not quite _human_ , Castiel drops to the ground and gathers snow into his hands and rolls them together (mostly mimicking Dean’s earlier action) until he finds the snow in the form of a _ball_. He only allows himself a brief instance of wonderment before he is hurdling the ball at Dean.

Dean makes a sound that Castiel can only interpret as surprise as he flinches away from the snowball.

“You little shit,” Dean says between clenched teeth, but he smiles and they both then splinter away from their sudden eye contact. It is an undeclared war, as they throw back and forth, barely even trying to _win._ Dean pants, and Castiel is _smiling_ so vividly that the cold air bites at his gums. Neither of them hear the front door of the house open, nor Sam’s approach. The younger Winchester patters down the front steps and Castiel sees him. Dean does not, on the other hand, as his eyes only sway between the snowballs and Castiel.

Castiel is unsure if he should be prepared to fend off _two_ Winchesters, until he sees Sam put a finger over his own lips and shake his head.

Understanding, Castiel hides his own excitement by biting down on his lower lip. Dean’s eyes meet his own and his expression hazes, darkly watching him as his hands falter. It almost looks like a surrender, though neither of them will know.

Sam attacks Dean from behind, pushing him forward and off the sidewalk, directly into the snow. There is a loud crunch, the top layer of ice covering the snow cracking as they fall into it. Dean curses at his brother, and then pushes himself up, only to throw a glare Castiel’s way.

“You let Sam sneak up on me? Whose side are you on?” he mutters.

“I was under the impression this was a battle. I simply assumed an ally.”

“I’ll tell you what I think of _assuming_ , it makes an a-s-s—”

“Dean,” Sam interjects and shoves his brother’s shoulder, nearly knocking Dean down into the snow once again. “Don’t you know that saying? All is fair in love and war?”

“Shut up Sam,” Dean cuts him off ruggedly. He looks between Sam and Castiel, brows pinched, and he crosses his arms. “You nerds deserve each other. My boyfriend and my brother, teaming up on me. I should have known it’d come to this.”

“S’only because we love you.” Sam grins widely, and he _must_ be trying to provoke Dean.

Castiel lays a hand solidly on Dean’s shoulder, and he wasn’t even _trying_ to touch his own handprint, but he does. Beneath at least three layers, Dean’s skin _must_ buzz at the contact because Dean’s green eyes have gone wide with wonder, with affection. Most likely mirroring his own gaze.

“I concur with Sam,” whispers Castiel, and he is not at all surprised by the chaste kiss planted upon his lips. What he does _not_ appreciate is the gagging sound Sam’s makes from behind Dean.

All is fair, Castiel supposes, when Sam’s repayment for ruining what was _quite_ the kiss was a two-on-one snowball fight. This time, it is Castiel fighting next to Dean. As light and happy as he feels, nothing has never felt more natural.

 


	11. Brute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About the time that the sun begins to push against the sky, shattering the dark and blooming with light, Castiel hears his name being called—a shrill, Enochian chant beckoning him. It’s Anael, he decides with utmost certainty. The numb feeling of awake fades and is replaced with dread as he opens his eyes, surprised to see Dean snoring lightly on his chest. Yes, that’s what the heat is. Dean—holding him, breathing against him, with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my lateness...again! This is a very important chapter and I needed some extra time to edit it. Enjoy, and don't kill me please.

Waiting should be an action written into his consciousness. It should be second nature. Yet, Castiel’s eyes always seem to hang on a clock. In class, in the lunchroom, in the library. The only time he does not want time to speed pass him is when he is in Sam or Dean’s company. He is familiar with many dimensions, all of which have different _times_. Heaven, Hell, Earth, and every dimension in between has a different scale by which time is measured. Time _moves_ , to put it most simply. But _living_ has offered a new perspective on the passing of time; emotions and states of consciousness such as boredom and excitement alter the rate at which time moves as well.

Or Castiel is strongly complicating something rather simple.

After the bout of winter weather of apocalyptic proportions, the students at St. Michael’s were becoming more and more anxious to end the semester. Dean and Sam were noticeably fed up with broken routines and wondering if the snow would close school one day, or if the subzero temperatures would do them in the next. A “break from this bible-thumping hell” was overdo, according to Dean.

They get through an entire week, the week just before the semester ends, and that Friday drags on longer than any other day prior. In English, their literature teacher attempts to finish their Shakespearean unit with no avail, but then two students begin a ridiculous comparison of Puck to some fictional interpretation of _Loki_. Gabriel’s absurd moniker would never escape him it seemed. 

The shrill bell rings and Castiel is surprisingly the first one to the door, anxious to disappear into the anonymity and nonsensical buzz of a hall break.

What he does not expect is a sudden and bruising hand reaching from around a corner of lockers, effectively pulling Castiel from the line of traffic. He tenses at first when he feels his back slam against a wall, but relaxes when he breathes in a familiar scent, feels warm breath glide across the base of his neck. Every instinct that whispers _danger_ falls silent as the pressure against his shoulder subsides and wet lips press against his neck, and go _up._

Castiel shudders as instinct takes him, hands pawing at Dean’s back to pull him closer. Dean seems to be kissing every inch of his neck until they find home at his ear, where he feels Dean smile against his skin.

“Missed you,” the words vibrate against his skin while the breath makes everything _except_ where it touches cold.

Fingers twist into the stiff collar of Dean’s shirt as Castiel releases a hushed, feral noise, bringing Dean’s teasing lips to his own. The sound of surprise Dean makes is swallowed, muted by the wet sounds of lips against lips. It’s a revelation—being pressed against a wall and taken by a human and enjoying it. He frowns as the word _submissive_ crosses his fleeting, thoughts—albeit tainted by lust—and grips Dean a little harder.

A little leverage is all it takes to push Dean away from him—not letting the indelicate meeting of their lips break—and then turn the boy quickly. Turning the tables, as the colloquialism goes, Castiel wedges his knee between Dean’s legs and feels a sudden gasp between his parted lips.

Dean slides a hand down his hip, and even with a few layers between their skin Castiel shivers. “You miss me too?” Dean whispers, pulling back as much as he can when he has no where to go.

Castiel’s head tilts, and he says breathlessly,“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Heh.” The thoughtful, small puff of air hits the side of Castiel’s mouth as he pulls out of the kiss completely. Dean’s eyes flash between lips and eyes, eyes and lips. “I know we’re not about the words, but sometimes it’s nice.” By we, Dean must mean himself.

A moment of solemn consideration and Castiel pulls back only slightly. He is no longer pinning Dean against the wall behind him, no longer _forcing_ him to concede to the kiss, even though he was a willing participant. Their proximity doesn’t change though. Inches apart is still a comfortable distance, and this inspires a new confidence in the angel. He gently lays one hand upon Dean’s cheek, and then the other, and holds the human’s face a breath away from his own. “Dean Winchester, I _missed_ you,” he confides earnestly, terrified by the words because he _misses_ he _wants_ and he _needs_ and these were human concepts he could hardly fathom mere months ago.

Castiel seals the words with an equally earnest—not nearly as desperate as the one before—kiss.

And it could have gone on until both of their lungs cried out for a break, but the one-minute warning bell quenches the kiss, and they part. Dean smiles stupidly, and Castiel just observes the wonderful blush splayed across his cheekbones, and only hopes that Dean can see how inexplicably _warm_ he feels. 

“I’ll see you at lunch, Cas,” Dean says, sidestepping from between Castiel and the wall behind him in order to slip his backpack over his shoulders. He winks once and then sprints back into the main hallway, and Castiel figures he will be late for his next class, anyhow. It’s only Religious Studies, a subject he is embarrassingly fluent in (to the teacher’s embarrassment, not his own) so he lets his balance sway and rests against the wall. There is an unwavering _thump thump thump_ underneath his ribs. It’s his heart, racing and telling him to just rest. Castiel basks in the lingering tingle of his lips.

  

* * *

 

 

From Calculus, two periods later, Castiel walks next to Sam as they chat about the book they were assigned (“This is so cool, Cas, reading a _book_ about Isaac Newton in a _math class_ ,” Sam exudes some fascinating variety of joy). Listening closely to the typical traits of a math class (since Castiel is still going along with the whole ‘homeschooled’ story Anael suggest he create), Castiel notices that a uncomfortable expression cross the younger boys face.

And then Sam begins to walk faster, tugging his books tighter against his chest. Bewildered by his change of pace, Castiel’s strides hesitates as they pass a group of students. They are solid athletic males by appearance, much like Dean in build, but Castiel perceives their feeble-mindedness as soon as he identifies Ace among the crowd. The boy’s eyes meet his and his pupils dilate, his lip curls into a cruel smile.

Angels are such wrathful creatures, more so than humans, Castiel thinks. Which is why he balls his fists instead of spreading his fingers across the petulant boy’s forehead. Smoted flesh and ash, crisp and dead—no. He has more self-control than that.

“Don’t listen to them, Cas,” Sam murmurs over his shoulder, reaching back to press a hand onto Castiel’s. It’s supportive, the softness of the gesture indicates.

“I have ears, it is difficult not to hear what is being said.”

“I mean, don’t take it to heart. They’re idiots,” Sam amends, and Castiel nods shortly. He knows, as hostile as he already is, he should take Sam’s advice and divert his thoughts elsewhere. Yet, complete knowledge of Sam’s discomfort is compelling.

“ _Faggot,_ ” says one of the students says, shielding the bruteness of the worth beneath a cross between a cough and a chuckle. The entire group breaks out into laughter.

The air is suddenly hot and frigid all at once, a lethargic rage pouring into his blood as his fingers dig so hard into his book that he punches holes through them with his finger nails.

Even angels aren’t ignorant to slurs. 

He stops walking abruptly, only a few strides ahead of the boys who are _still_ laughing.

“Cas,” Sam hums, warning in his breath.

Months have passed and Castiel has played his role very well. He has attempted to remain inconspicuous during his stay at St. Michael’s, a supposed house of God. Regardless of God’s presence on this plane or any other in existence, this _house_ was built upon a foundation of mistranslation and cultural skews—three thousand _years_ of misinterpretations of God’s true word.

God is _indifferent_ to petty things such as who one loves. Unconditional love is a cornerstone of faith— _any_ faith—which these boys sorely lack.

“‘ _Judge not, that ye not be judged_ ,’” Castiel rattles off venomously as he encroaches on one of the boy’s physical boundaries. He actually knows this one from the party Dean took him too, called Brady. A womanizer at the very least, he has given Dean the cold shoulder since it became rather obvious that Castiel and Dean’s relationship is no longer...platonic.

His sniggering ceases and his eyes widen, opening the window of his soul—quite literally. Castiel barely touches his Grace—and the proximity to his human subject does limit the amount of Grace he uses in brushing the top of the boy’s— _Brady’s—_ thoughts. His jaw relaxes upon revelation, and Castiel tilts his head. “Ah, so it does not take a heterosexual male to know that verse comes from the book of Matthew, I gather.”

Brady’s grimace falters and despair flicks over his features for two milliseconds, shoulders role beneath the flat lines of his sweater. Castiel does not feel the fist collide with the underside of his jaw until a belligerent string of curses pour out of Brady’s lips.

It seems he underestimated how thick-skinned, so to speak, Castiel is. Brady uses his spare hand to clutch the other broken one (Castiel heard the bones fracture himself, to his pleasure). However, inertia did cause Castiel to lose his balance and fall to the ground. Hurriedly, Sam heaves him up by his bicep. “Are you okay?” 

As soon as Castiel’s on his feet, he brushes the thighs of his pant legs. “I’m fine.” By this time, the interchange has warranted an audience, through which the teachers push through—and behind them, Principal Adler.

Castiel closes his eyes briefly, finding his calm, falling back into his—his role. At Principal Adler’s approach, he flexes his jaw, preparing a monologue of explanation, and feels a distinct throb of pain erupt up into the space just below his ear.

“Mister Novak, why am I so surprised to see you?” Adler declares, proudly drawling out every syllable so that all know he is present. His gaze shifts from Castiel to Sam, and he tuts. “Oh, and Winchester Younger. I thought you were spared the troublemaker gene.”

“Sir, Castiel and I were just walking by,” Sam explains quickly, and then points to Brady (who was still sniffling about his broken little fist), to Ace, and the rest of the boys _started_ it. Castiel didn’t even lift a finger.”

To make his point, Castiel showed his hands, smooth and unblemished. “However, you will find that Brady’s hand is broken, and I did _not_ throw my jaw at his fist,” Castiel adds.

“That sniveling—” Ace begins, tongue licking the front of his teeth. “Novak _provoked_ Brady.”

“And you were spewing hateful hypocrisy from your mouths, but I did not lay a finger upon you,” snaps Castiel, pointedly locking his gaze with Brady. “Especially you.”

“ _Enough_!”  Adler is _livid,_ gaze shifting between all of them. “I want you four—” he points to Brady and the others. “—to go to the guidance office. If you don’t show, consider yourselves automatically suspended. _All of you._ ” And then he locked eyes with Castiel. “Mister Novak, Mister Winchester. My office.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as Adler closes the door behind himself, Castiel and Sam are already seated in the two chairs placed on the other side of his desk. It does not seem like very long ago that Castiel sat in this same chair with Dean in the other. Wistfully Castiel identifies how much has profoundly changed in the short months that he’s walked the earth, walked these halls.

The thoughtful moment is shattered by Adler’s voice behind them. “Do not think that what you and Dean Winchester have been doing has escaped my attention, Mister Novak,” he says slowly, walking around them with lingering, distant eyes. He sits down slowly in his chair, the rub of leather against the fabric of his pants making a disruptive squeaking noise.

“I do not know to what you are referring,” Castiel replies evenly.

“Your, your— _fornication_.” Adler makes a vague hand gesture, features exploding with disgust. “It’s all the boys have been talking about today. It’s disgusting, the details—in the _hallway_ no less!”

“All we did was kiss.” Castiel’s eyebrows pinch. “And hardly anyone saw—we were not in the main hallway.”

“None of that aligns with the reports I’ve received.”

Sam snorts. “Probably from those homophobes like Ace and Brady and Kyle—”

“Mister Winchester, please stop incriminating yourself by making such harsh accusations, I’d hate to see your future here at St. Michael’s jeopardized,” Adler says calmly.

Sam looks astonished, and then angry, but bites his tongue. Castiel, on the other hand, leans forward and edges his hands against the side of the desk. “Don’t threaten Sam, he didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Except in choosing the company he keeps,” Adler sighs, shaking his head as he looks at Sam. “No doubt due to your brother—”

“Look, Mr. Adler,” Sam starts before their principal can go down another route of insults directed at Dean. “So lets say what you heard was wrong, and Cas and my brother were just kissing, does that mean they are in trouble?”

“Of course,” Adler answers without missing a beat. “Public Display of Affection is explicitly against our policy here at St. Michael’s.”

Sam stiffens. “Can you show me in the handbook where it says that?”

Adler watches him, eyes narrowed and _angry._ He sighs and slides out his lowest desk drawer, and pulls out a book, throwing it to the other side of the desk.

_The Holy Bible_ , the cover reads, and Adler opens it up and shoves it toward Sam. “I believe you’ll find your answers in, hm, Leviticus.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and less insulted by yet another insolent and ignorant interpretation of God’s true will.

“You think I’m being funny, Castiel? Ironic, you are named after an angel. You are _nothing_ of the sort, are you? Little sinner, you and Dean Winchester. This is an _all boys_ school, a Catholic school, of course there is no tolerance for displays of affection. I do not blame Brady for trying to...force some sense into you.”

“Wait,” Sam interjected, face blank. “With all do respect, _Kyle’s_ the one who called Cas a faggot, Brady’s your little hall monitor who probably told you about them fornicating _and_ he’s the one who punched Cas, and Ace is the ring leader of that little gang that’s been tormenting Cas ever since he got here. If you’re gonna sit by and treat my friend and my _brother_ like criminals, then I don’t want a future here.”

“I suppose that’s a discussion you can have with your parents, and your parents with me,” Adler murmurs between clenched teeth.

“Yeah,” Sam says simply with a nod. “And I’ll make sure to talk to my mom about everything. Down to you being okay with other students ‘forcing sense’ with violence and all.” Sam shrugs. “Wonder if that’ll come up at the next PTA meeting.”

Adler holds his breath, barely containing the lividity threatening to burst through his lips.

_“Both of you_.” Adler raises a finger to the door. “Dismissed.”

 

* * *

 

More people stare at Castiel than usual, and he wonders if it has anything to do with the fact his face is swelling. Once he’s at lunch, he goes to get his food (he’s learned he has to eat some of it to look _normal,_ even though he isn’t fond of eating—school food, no less) but his tray flies from his hands and paints down the front of his blue sweater. Jello and whipped cream, red-and-brown spaghetti sauce...well, at least he has an excuse not to eat.

He looks up to see two students chuckling as they walk by, scuffing their black shoes against the tile floor in order to wipe away the noodles stuck to the bottom of them.

A sigh falls from his parted lips. Castiel has better things to worry about than teenage bullies, and focuses on finding Dean rather than being upset that he cannot escape the smell of overcooked meat and canned tomatoes stuck to the front of his sweater until he leaves school.

At his usual table is Dean and Sam directly adjacent to him. Neither of them notice his approach, but as soon as Castiel sits next to Dean, he jumps and turns and—their lips press together.

The kiss is short and fleeting, leaving Castiel wanting for more when Dean pulls back, only to press a hand against his sore cheek. “I’m so sorry, Cas, I’m _so_ sorry.”

Castiel winces, pulling back slightly as he squints at Dean. “Why are you apologizing?”

Blinking, Dean seems to be shocked he was asked that question. “Because. I got you into this. I shoulda’ _known_ those dicks wouldn’t just let us be. We shoulda’ just kept it out of school, where you wouldn’t get _punched_.”

“You did nothing that I didn’t consent to,” Castiel cuts in before Dean can blame himself—wrongfully—any more. He touches his cheek, laying his hand over Dean’s and ignoring the pain that comes from the pressure. “This is just a reminder that humans can be so _petty._ There are so many people who accept you for who you are, like your teammate Benny. And Sam. Your mother, even. That’s all I truly care about, because the opinions of teenage _boys_ so insecure in their sexuality that _kissing_ terrifies them—they do not scare me. You know I could...take them down easily, if I so pleased.”

Dean snorts, his frown crumbling away. “I guess you’re right.”

“I _am_ right, no guessing involved.” Castiel’s lip twitches upward. He glances to Sam. “Also, your brother is a force to be reckoned with.”

Dean slowly turns with a cocked brow to face Sam. “Is that so?”

“I called Adler on his bullshit,” Sam says with a shrug. “And, yeah, ninety-nine percent of everything he said was bullshit.”

“Big fucking surprise. I’m so glad this is the last day we gotta spend in this shit hole.”

“Until next year,” Sam points out, “For me at least.”

“Not if Mom has anything to say about it.” Dean shakes his head and stuffs a fork full of spaghetti into his mouth, eyes side-glancing down Castiel’s torso, and falling upon the stain up his sweater. “What happened?” he mumbled around his food.

“Someone ran into me.”

“Are you hungry? I got an extra apple.” Dean holds it out to him.

Castiel smiles, having no power in himself to decline anything from Dean now. “Yes, thank you.”

* * *

 

 

Later that day, Dean and Castiel walk into the biology classroom together. The entire science wing reeks of formaldehyde, but it is especially potent in this room. Spread out on each lab table is a feline that the class has been assigned to dissect, each in pairs.

Dean is more tense than usual, occasionally casting a wary glance to his side. His eyes linger sadly on the bruise (according to Dean, it’s less red, more purple). While their teacher lectures on how to perform the dissection, Dean looks from Castiel to peer over his shoulder. It does not take an ounce of tuition to know that the snarl on is being directed at Ace.

Beneath the table, Castiel touches Dean’s leg. Dean jerks his gaze to meet his, just as Castiel shakes his head. It’s not worth it, his anger. Ace will learn his lesson in the future when his friends learn that being manipulated is not worth the popularity, the facade of superiority. Ace will feel the bite of those he has fed, and that will be justice enough.

Pinching his brows, Dean shrugs deep into his seat with his arms crossed against his chest. Petulant and, dare Castiel say it, _precious,_ he smiles at Dean and ceases to listen to their teacher ramble on about lab procedure. 

Eventually they begin the dissection, and Castiel lets Dean take the lead for the most part. He helps identify muscles and organs, but does not care to cut into creatures that never hurt him. The rationale does not even make sense. Castiel is— _was—_ a soldier, and perhaps it is that slight change of tense that makes the difference. Makes him want to avert his eyes each time Dean cuts and that sound of wet squish of flesh fills his ears.

Dean pauses after a few minutes, noticing that Castiel was not particularly eager to be involved. His lips press together in tight concern, and he lets the scalpel go limp in his fingers. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Castiel exhales tiredly, trying a smile. “I am eager to leave.”

“Man, me too,” Dean snorts, but still eyes him—concerned. “You squeamish? I thought you know, with being a...hunter.” He lowers his voice. “You don’t get turned off by this.”

“I try to distance myself from death,” Castiel supposes, squinting as he collects the least informative words while remaining honest. “There has always been some...some battle, into which I have had to descend, along with my family. I was always told it’s just, that shed blood was _evil_ blood, but you still cannot erase the blood.” His voice trails off, becoming thick and raw. “So much...you know, Dean. Monsters, demons, they generally bleed red.”

Seeming to understand, Dean nods and casts his gaze down into his lap. “I get that, man. The whole key to this dissection is, um, making it clinical. And I guess in your line of work, that’s how you…”

“Stop caring who lives and who dies?” Castiel answers, catching Dean’s feature shift into something...pitying. Castiel resents it initially, brows pinching. “But I _do_ care, I will always care. They...my family always told me I cared too much. That it was my greatest weakness.”

“Your family’s a bunch of dicks, Cas. You’ve got the biggest goddamn heart—I care that you care.” Dean’s cheeks flush suddenly. “One of the things I—I like most ‘bout you.”

“Thank you.” Castiel presses a hand against the knee closest to him, offering a warm smile that—to his surprise—causes Dean to flush even more. Curious. “You’re a good man, Dean.”

Dean bites his lip and looks down, blatantly avoiding the compliment. “We, ah, gotta finish the first page of this worksheet.” Dean twists his lips he examines the specimen. “Where’s the cat’s, um, liver. Or did we already do that?”

“We found the liver already. We have to find its— _his_ —testes now,” replies Castiel, glancing down into the packet.

“ _Shit,_ ” Dean says with a shudder. “I don’t want to shuck this kitty’s balls.”

“That’s a crude way of putting it.”

“ _This_ is crude. Dead or not—no. Not doing this.” Dean pushes away from the table with a distinct scowl of disgust.

As if Dean could control time, the bell rings right on cue. His grimace explodes into a smile as their eyes both meet. It is the end of the day, the last day.

The last day Castiel will ever be in this building, ever come to school.

In spite of his swollen cheek, the forming bruise, and the foul taste in his mouth left by the student body’s demeanor, he quietly mourns the brief glimpse into humanity the place offered him.

And then, proudly holding Dean’s hand, he leaves it behind.

  

* * *

 

 

Generally speaking, the first days of their ‘vacation’ (which is a perplexing label for the three full weeks Dean will be going _nowhere)_ were average. The routine was only altered in that Dean stayed up later and woke up later the following morning. Instead of classes, Castiel assisted Sam and Dean in shoveling snow and ice from driveways around the neighborhood. For lack of a proper job, mowing lawns and raking leaves and shoveling snow has been Dean’s only source of income, apparently. Before, Castiel hardly considered that the brothers were in need of financial stability. After all, they lived at home.

“Mom doesn’t work really, and Dad works on oil rigs. Not the best pay,” Sam explains, indulging Castiel’s curiosity as they heave their shovels against the ice-coated pavement. Dean doesn’t acknowledge that an inquiry was made at all. He just seems to throw his weight into the task more.

“So, how do you make money, Sam?” Castiel asks in an effort to redirect the conversation.

Sam huffs a hot breath of air as he leans his weight on the end of his shovel. “Well, in junior high I’d get mom to buy me these bulk packages of Twizlers and Hershey's, candy you know. I’d calculate the cost per unit—per piece of candy I mean—and the sum of that is what I owed my mom. Based on how bad the kids at school wanted my candy and how much money I needed, I up’ed the price a bit. I could usually make two-hundred percent back, so I could buy my own bags and keep _all_ the profit.” 

Castiel blinks, watching Sam with a look of…awe. “That is a brilliant scheme.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Sam says, enthused. “Dean always thought it was nerdy. Think he was just jealous that his little brother was making more bank than him.”

“I’m standing right here you nerds,” Dean shouts at them both, glaring at the two of them. “If your candy business is doing so great, then how ‘bout you go inside, Sammy? Let me collect all of the money for this job.”

“I’m not gonna let you do it alone.”

Dean snorts. “I won’t be, Cas’ll help me.”

“Fine,” Sam says, hauling the shovel over his shoulder with a smirk. “Then you gotta split half of it with _him_ , right Cas? Or are you content with being your boyfriend’s slave.”

“I’m not his slave,” Castiel deadpans, looking at Dean. “I am content in being paid in some other way, as I have no need for money.”

“Oh, and what _do_ you need, Cas?” Dean asks lowly, pausing his shoveling to stare at him... _darkly_. His eyebrows wiggle on his forehead.

“Oh my god, _gross!_ I’m not sticking around for this.” Sam groans and mutters incoherently as he walks back down the sidewalk, salt crunching beneath his boots. Castiel watches him go, a smirk twitching on his lips. He doesn’t even notice Dean encroaching upon him, but when he feels lips at his jaw, he can’t help but let the shovel fall from his hands.

They ghost along the cleft of his chin, taunting and smiling. Meanwhile, Dean’s gloved fingers tug at the crimson scarf wrapped tight around his neck, causing the skin below to rise with unwanted goosebumps as the cold hits it. Dean soon breathes hot air over the skin and a shiver jolts through his entire body.

“We should...finish this driveway,” Dean says against his neck, the hum of words grately affecting Castiel’s ability to make his own.

“I’m—I’m not stopping you.”

With a laugh, Dean pulls away, adjusts Cas scarf meticulously with suddenly _tight_ lips, and then grips the shovel with both hands. “Yeah, you kinda are. Distracting me.”

“I can distract you plenty, once you’re finished.”

Dean’s cheeks take on a marvelously pink hue. “Dude, you’re killing me here.”

Castiel tilts his head, taking his lower lip between his teeth. “Then you must hurry up and finish.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel walks along side the Winchesters in a Christmas tree farm when he realizes that it is December nineteenth. He marvels at how much different time moves when he is fully embracing this ‘being human’. Sometimes time moves too fast, like the fleeting kisses Dean shares. And there have been many of those, none lasting quite long enough for him to be fully sated.

And then there are times where time moves slowly. Snowflakes drifting from the clouds, delicately swaying in the breeze, fighting it even, before it lands on the branch of a pine tree. Or the ground. Or, most amusingly, on the blonde tips of Dean’s hair. Sometimes he cannot resist rustling his fingers through it, to free the snowflakes before they melt in his hair.

He is running out of time, he realizes, panic swallowing his sentience. He stops walking suddenly, eyes pointed forward in a blank stare. He’s only vaguely aware of voices murmuring his name. 

There are so many trees.

So many delicately things, composed of carbon and chlorophyll; so small in terms of the universe, so large in his eyes. A difficult dichotomy for an angel to comprehend.

They waver four seasons, snow and sleet, rain and fire even (if they are so lucky). Thousands of these trees are plucked from the ground by the minute. They transform, but they live on in different ways. Their souls exist in the foundations of houses, in paper, in medicine.

And those that remain, they go on to make more trees. More things that will mature only to be killed. Yet, they do not weep. They do not give up and let life go, let themselves rot until they are nothing but chunks of...of death.

“Cas?”

It’s Dean voice that Castiel can finally concentrate on. His gaze flickers, wonderment evaporating from his features as his eyes fall upon Dean’s face. And then he’s overtaken by wonder all over again.

“Humans are much like trees,” he muses. “You cut them down, but they grow right back. Larger. Stronger. More beautiful.”

Sam clears his throat, breaking the soft silence following Castiel’s words and Dean’s stunned expression. “Mom’s waiting in the car. We should pick one out.”

Once again, Castiel has lost track of time. Dean wipes his hand across his mouth, turning on his heel to gaze around the circlet of pine trees around them. All of them glisten with ice coating their branches. “Well, let’s pick one then.”

“Maybe Cas should pick it? Since he’s never had a Christmas tree?” Sam suggests softly. Dean smiles at the idea, clapping his hand over Sam’s shoulder affectionately.

“Yeah, Cas, you pick one,” he says.

Castiel runs his tongue over his lips, trying to keep them moist. His lips are so dry, so cold. He then gazes around them, wondering how he could possibly pick _one._ They are all quite beautiful. He was taught in Heaven that nature was the last true and pure handiwork of God. That, despite their supposed duty to protect humans, they were so insatiably flawed. So he was taught. He appreciates the trees, the splendor of their vastness, the heeding comfort their scent provides.

“That one, I suppose.” Castiel points to the most logical tree, one that would fit through the Winchester’s front door. The green of its needles remind him of Dean’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

The night is spent decorating the tree. Mary retrieves several plastic bins from the attic, which are filled with lights, with tinsel, and with ornaments. Some are just bulbs of red and green, lined with golden glitter, and others are small picture frames. Castiel’s heart swells, a smile stretching his lips as he gazes down to a picture in his hands. He recognizes the little boys, not as the Sam and Dean he currently knows, but the ones he once watched over. The ones he swore long ago to protect…

“You were so chubby, Sam,” Castiel murmurs. “You must have been very well fed.”

Alarmed, Sam lurches across the floor to where Castiel kneels and rips the little ornament from his hands. “Mom, why did you frame a picture of Dean holding me _naked?!”_  

Mary smirks, shrugs her shoulders as she hangs decorations on the tree. “It was a cute picture.”

“Let me see!” Dean laughs and snatches it from Sam’s fingers. “Oh man, I need to put this on Instagram.” He’s reaching for his phone out of his pocket. “Or at least save it for a throwback.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “No, no you don’t.” He takes the ornament and shoves it in his pocket. “The last thing I need is you _blackmailing_ me.”

“Oh, come on! You know me better than that.”

“You’ve made it your mission in life to embarrass Sam,” Mary agrees, holding out her hand to the younger Winchester. She exaggerates a sigh when he gives a curt nod of his head, refusing to give it to her. “Please let me hang up the ornament.”

“Not unless you threaten Dean with murder if he posts it on the internet.”

Mary turns and narrows her gaze at Dean. It’s actually a very frightening glare, as far as humans go. Mary is a fierce woman, whose threats could be woven into something more akin to a promise. “If you put your naked baby brother on the internet, Dean Winchester, I will personally kick your ass.” Dean grumbles something that sounds like a concession and crosses his arms petulantly. Satisfied, Mary pats her thighs and looks at Castiel. “Would you like to see some embarrassing pictures of Dean, Castiel?”

“Very much so,” Castiel chuckles, resting his palm on Dean’s forearm when he reddens. “I am sure you were precious.”

And he is not only _sure,_ but certain.

 

* * *

 

The night ends with Mary fixing the three of them mugs of hot chocolate, which they drink next to the fireplace in the living room. The crackle of burning wood is only an interlude to the laughter, the _stories_ of characters called ‘Rudolph’ and ‘Santa Claus’ (the latter being a man named Kristoph Kringle that Castiel actually was charged to observe, for some time. He had a kind soul and his heaven was crafting toys). Castiel never tired of hearing Dean’s voice. When talking to Sam, he was full of jubilee and he was _soft;_ when speaking to Mary, he held a high regard and an unwavering protective spirit; and when he whispered words of affection into Castiel’s ear, there was nothing to compare the joy that came with the love blooming in his chest.

The chocolate made him happy, too. soothed his throat when his thick voice became too tired. Sam was the first to start yawning, just after dawn struck and it became officially December twentieth, and it is oddly infectious. Castiel covers his mouth to shield the yawn.

“I’m tired too,” Dean says, the last to yawn, as he stretches his arms above his head. His bones crackle, and then he lays his arm over Castiel’s shoulder. “Wanna go to bed?”

Castiel eases into his touch, suddenly wanting to kiss him, but did not think Sam would appreciate that. Patience. “Yes. It’s late.”

“I’m usually nocturnal, Sam’s the one that gets up at the crack of dawn. Baby.”

“Well I’m not the only baby tonight,” Sam grumbles. They both climb from their positions on the floor, Castiel finding his fingers tucked gently in Dean’s. “I’ll take the mugs.”

“Thank you Sam,” says Castiel. As soon as Sam’s in the kitchen, Dean tilts Castiel’s chin upward and effortlessly slides their lips together. A little tongue, and _yes,_ chocolate licking its way into Castiel’s mouth. He moans softly into Dean’s mouth, grappling at his neck to bring him closer.

“Hold on, lets—upstairs,” Dean whispers against the side of his mouth.

They fumble up the stairs and into Dean’s bedroom. There is a note of desperation between their lips, coming from Dean, as if he knows what’s coming next. Castiel returns the sentiment in earnest, the best he can, speaking in this foreign language of kissing.

Castiel feels his knees hit Dean’s mattress, and he sits down. His fingers twist into the comforter beneath them, trying to steady himself, as Dean crawls into his lap and sinks into him, their groins grinding together through blue jeans, his tongue exploring every possible inch of Castiel’s mouth.

Torturously slow, Dean combs his fingers through his hair, cupping the back of Castiel’s neck as he continues to push their mouths together. “You’re so _fucking—”_ Dean bites out, the sentence left incomplete when Castiel raises his hips to meet Dean’s.

“What?” Castiel whispers against Dean’s lips. “What am I?”

His lips move across Castiel’s jaw, up to his ear, where his teeth scrape against the tender and sensitive lobe. A hot puff of air, the soft tickle of his teeth as he bites Castiel’s ear lightly, and he says, “Perfect.”

Castiel shakes his head once, about to argue, but Dean swallows every protest. Does Dean know the magnitude of such a word? Perfect, like Creation, like God. Castiel is _dishonest_ and lost, a rebel whose cause slips between his fingers the closer he grows to this microscopic human. In the scheme of things, Castiel is useless. But, maybe. Maybe the mere fact that God crafted him, as God created the earth and the stars and heaven and these flawed (yet so monumentally amazing) humans, is what makes him perfect. Capable of love. Capable of _being_ loved.

“Dean, I love you,” he says back, so quiet he can hardly hear himself. Dean’s ministrations stutter, and he struggles to meet Castiel’s gaze. “If my love was tangible, it would burn me alive.”

For a few seconds, Dean blinks back at him. “That’s really...romantic, Cas.”

Castiel reaches his hand to touch Dean’s shoulder, where his own handprint lay. Dean immediately recoils at the touch, eyes widening. “It would burn you, too.”

“Fuck, Cas,” he whispers, rolling off his lap. He does remove Castiel’s hand from his shoulder. In fact, he lays his own hand over top of his, pressing Castiel’s fingers through his clothed skin. “Sometimes I wonder...what’s going on. What the hell you are, how you’re fighting all...all _this._ Demons, angels, whatever. I wonder, but I don’t ask because.” His eyes soften, and he leans in to place a chaste kiss on Castiel’s cheek. Warmth blooms there, and Castiel touches the patch of skin in the wake of Dean’s lips. “Because I really, really love you, and I _really_ don’t care what you are.”

Castiel cannot help but smile, in spite of his doubts that if Dean _did_ know, he would certainly hate him.

They don’t speak again, or kiss again, but Dean does lay down on the mattress, and he pulls Castiel to follow. Dean nestles his cheek against his bicep, where his breath can flow freely against Castiel’s neck.

This is, perhaps, the perfect end. Castiel bathing in the illusion of unconditional love, and Dean fast asleep. Warm and safe, with Dean Winchester.

 

* * *

 

About the time that the sun begins to push against the sky, shattering the dark and blooming with light, Castiel hears his name being called—a shrill, Enochian chant beckoning him. It’s Anael, he decides with utmost certainty. The numb feeling of _awake_ fades and is replaced with dread as he opens his eyes, surprised to see Dean snoring lightly on his chest. Yes, that’s what the heat is. Dean—holding him, breathing against him, _with_ him.

Touch—skin to skin contact—ought to ease the dark in his mind, but then he remembers that today is the eve of the winter solstice, and possibly the last day he will ever experience this. Humanity, that is. Most likely, he will die today, or tomorrow, an angel. He’s seen angels die many times over in the heat of battle, at the end of his own sword. A burst of ethereal light and a sound like scraping over metal. And then the nothingness comes, like the Grace that exploded simultaneously sucks the life from the air and makes everything silent and gray.

Castiel has seen this happen too many times, but he cannot fully imagine what it would be like to experience such a death. God never told them where angels went after death, because God never intended for angels to die. And maybe they do not. Maybe their Graces live on in souls. It would make sense, considering the nature of angels who fall. They maintain their identities only in that their new soul is crafted from fragments of Grace, or so Castiel has been told.

Tiredly, he rolls out from beneath Dean, and then maneuvers a pillow so that he won’t be woken by the sudden absence. Yet, he still groans under a veil of sleep, protesting despite Castiel’s efforts. Thoughtful, he brushes his fingers along Dean’s cheek, then exaggerated the gesture by spreading his fingers so that they would thread into Dean’s hair. So beautiful and warm and _alive_. Castiel’s lips press, and his eyes fall shut as he extracts his fingers. Clenches them into a white-knuckled fist.

That way, Dean shall remain.

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel goes to where Anael has called him, her voice a homing beacon that is set in the center of a field somewhere in Oklahoma. The sky is clearer here, clouds not as dense in the sky just as the snow is not as thick on the ground. Still, the layer of ice crunches beneath his feet as he walks through the short, dead grass. There is nothing, no one, except the sound of an airplane flying overhead. Castiel squints into the sky, the light flashing dimly against the sunlight. 

“Anael?” Castiel calls, because his Enochian calls are not working. He is doubtful it will be any more successful, but hearing himself speak steadies the flurry of coldness tickling in his stomach. It’s a clenching fear of uncertainty, because he should not be alone.

Anael _called_ for him, to this very place in time. Even with a weakened Grace, the lowest rank of angel can accurately pinpoint another seraph’s call. And he is not too weak—not yet—to miss his mark.

The sound of wings flapping, almost indiscernible, makes Castiel spin around, jaw clenched as he exhales.

“Well, don’t look so happy to see me!”

Castiel shuts his eyes. “Gabriel,” he grinds out. “What are you doing here? Where is Anna—Anael?”

The bemused expression on Gabriel’s features falters. “Ah—well. That’s a good question. I’m ninety-nine percent sure she called me here…” He presses his index finger to his chin. “Huh. Maybe I should get my hearing checked.”

“But I heard her call me here, too.” Castiel’s eyes shift around them, suspicious. “Why would she…”

“Oh!” Gabriel says suddenly. “It may have something to do with some intel I dug up. Took a little dimension-hopping here, time travel there, and a _very_ close call with a much scarier version of our friend Death.”

Castiel momentarily lays aside his worry, his wondering of Anael’s whereabouts, to listen. “What did you find?”

“A way to lock Mike up—permanently.” He enunciates the last word with a melancholic hum. “So we _all_ know dad was real big on symmetry, right? ‘As it is in heaven, it shall be on Earth’? Yeah, so it applies to Hell too. So when God made Lucifer’s cage, he apparently made… a mirror.”

“Of course God made a prison in Heaven,” Castiel murmurs, suddenly wary of this ‘intel’. “Where else are we meant to keep the angels who— _disobey_.”

“Don’t condescend an archangel, bud. What I’m talking about isn’t a freakin’ _prison_. It’s a cage. It’s _the_ cage, just on the flipside. It’s made of the same archangel-binding stuff that kept Lucifer under wraps for so long. And it will keep Michael in, too.”

“And, how do we get into it?”

“You got the rings?” Gabriel asks in reply. Castiel bites his lip, and shakes his head.

“No, Anael has them.”

“Well, next time she shows her face, hold on to them. They are your _only_ weapon against our brothers, Castiel.” Gabriel levels his gaze, all grave and dark, almost sorrowful. “Death told me that his other-self, the this-dimension self, told you the incantation that went along with the rings.”

“Yes, to open up Lucifer’s cage.”

“All you do, to open Heaven’s cage, is say the incantation in reverse.” Gabriel throws up his hands, a mocking smile on his face. “That’s all folks!”

Blinking, Castiel crosses his arms over his chest. “That sounds far too simple. Are you certain?”

“Certain that it’s your only goddamned shot,” Gabriel murmurs. “Don’t know why Anael couldn’t tell you herself, but whatever. I’ve helped you, now you gotta do your part kid.” He raises his fingers, pressing them together as he’s about to snap.

“Wait!” Castiel starts, stretching out a hand. Gabriel’s brows furrow. Inhaling once, then exhaling, Castiel bows his head. He is grateful.  “Thank you. You didn’t have to do any of this.”

“Yeah, I did,” Gabriel sighs. “I like people. They’re fun. They’re...real. When you have infinite power, you have the ability to be infinitely irresponsible. Fake. I don’t know, seems like… I would miss the mayhem. And, damn, humans make _awesome_ food.”

Castiel, despite himself, chuckles. He can almost relate—he has felt humanities wonders in other ways. In the arms of a human, that is. “I understand. Nonetheless, thank you.”

Before he snaps his fingers together, a true smile reaches Gabriel’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

With the new knowledge of a _slight_ possibility of surviving the winter solstice, Castiel feels exhilarated. Ever since Death handed over his ring, there had been that sliver of hope that Michael could be defeated. But—Michael would be waiting in the wings. Now Castiel has _unconditional_ hope that both archangels can be subdued.

Victory is suddenly a bright and possible future that is blinding.

The hope makes him miss Dean.

But he cannot go back now, he already said his goodbyes. Albeit, Dean did not get the opportunity to say goodbye but—but Castiel doesn’t _want_ it to be goodbye. If he fails, then everything will burn. By now, Michael must have already found an alternative vessel for lack of having access to Dean, just as Lucifer has made due in a vessel that is not Sam. The battle will happen regardless, and the world will burn regardless. Dean will not have to know there was a goodbye to be had, if he dies.

The mere _thought_ of Dean perishing in the crossfires of two angels’ fury reminds Castiel of the righteous fear and loyalty to mankind that caused him to flee heaven, that left him desperate to _save_ Sam and Dean.

So, there is no other option. Lucifer and Michael _will_ be encaged.

Though, this will only be possible when he finds Anael and retrieves the rings. She will not accompany him to the battlefield, because he needs someone he can trust to at least attempt to protect the Winchesters, should he fail.

Yet, he cannot sense her presence. He goes to all their meeting places, ending with the warehouse which—oddly enough—rings with an angel’s presence. His senses are dulled, but he can _feel_ her Grace, strumming like a heartbeat from somewhere inside the building. Castiel walks slowly, gravel rolling beneath the soles of his shoes when he hears footsteps behind him.

He is about to say her name in relief, but it hitches in his throat, eyes growing wide.

Zachariah saunters, hands set on his hips and his expression narrow yet smug. “Why, if it isn’t our little Castiel? Almost couldn’t recognize you, smelling like human.”

The angel before him broadens his shoulders, raises his chin. This vessel is different from the last, but his arrogance and dulled Grace shines bright, the colors of his halo as tell-tale as a strand of human DNA. 

“What do you want?” Castiel demands, not cowering in his smaller vessel. He knows that, in a fight, Castiel would win. He is the stronger seraph—except, his own Grace is weakened due to its disconnect from the Nucleus, from Heaven. “And where is Anael?”

Zachariah laughs loudly, and wings flap, other seraphs flanking him in the shadows. “What do I want?” he mocks, voice boisterous and bordering on hysterical. “What do I _want?_ I want you, Castiel, and not in the biblical sense, no, you got your fair share of that from Dean Winchester. What I want is your  _head_ on a platter. You know, going renegade and helping these pathetic, facetious humans, going against God’s divine will, that’s blasphemy, Castiel. I know it’s been a few centuries since you’ve been Educated—” Castiel cringes, knowing the connotation of the word being equivalent to ‘brainwashing’ or ‘torture’— “But here’s how it goes. You get a slap on the hand, the first go, right? Well, the second time, not so much. You get recycled. That’s the way Dad wanted it.”

Castiel glowers. “So, you’re going to kill me.” The thought barely fazes him.

“You wish,” Zachariah chuckles, before his features collapse into a grim expression. “No, since you’ve made my job of snagging Dean Winchester extra difficult, I’m gonna make this much harder for you. Oh, and it’s probably going to make my century, to be honest.” He lifts a finger and jabs it against his own shoulder, which makes Castiel peer forward in confusion.

The confusion does not last; it’s as fleeting as the brief moment before inexplicable pain blossoms in his upper back as a blade stabs through the layers of skin, of muscle, and blood spurts down the front of his chest when the blade goes all the way through. A breath sticks in Castiel’s throat as his knees buckle, and he only has time to turn his neck to see his attacker before his legs crumble beneath him.

The sound of the blade being retracted, tearing through his muscle and torn skin as it goes, fills his ears as his eyes are filled with the sight of vibrant red hair and empty blue eyes.

“Anael?” Castiel croaks, eyes widening as he falls back onto his elbows. He scoots away from her, pushing weakly with his legs. He tries to fly but—Zachariah must be grounding him somehow, have placed some sigil to disable his powers. He can’t even summon enough energy to even _begin_ to heal his wounds.

And, beside that, is the inexplicable flame of betrayal that ignites in his chest. Castiel’s knees dig into the gravel surface of the ground, igniting pain in his kneecaps. He grinds his teeth, pain blossoming everywhere when another angel comes from behind, grabs his arms and folds them back until he feels muscle tear in his shoulder from being pulled into an unnatural position too fast. His head falls back as he swallows a whimper, eyes gazing into Anael’s.

Castiel decides instantly that the moment he is free she will be the first to die. For it is Anael who has soiled his plan with her false camaraderie and allegiance. The ghost of fingers across his cheek make a deeper, more pained sensation swell in his chest. She is the only angel Castiel could ever love like a true sister. She was the one who pulled back the curtain of Heaven’s deceit and destruction, and showed him the beauty which is humanity. And it was all a lie—

And for her manipulation, she should die.

“You are a _traitor_ ,” he bites out as the angel binds him by his wrists, and then his ankles. He begins to lose his balance, falls forward, but then Anael reaches out and grasps Castiel by his neck. His lip curls, a ferocious and deliberate rage exuding from his essence as he stares into her eyes.

...eyes, which are emptier than space itself.

The absence well, anything, in the depths of her gray-blue eyes stuns Castiel momentarily, only until her fingers squeeze tighter around his windpipe. He breathes through the narrow path still, unable to sway from her hold.

Zachariah laughs loudly at the scene. Castiel looks at him from the corner of his eye, bile building his in his throat when he sees the angel’s wrinkled vessel throw his neck back as he guffaws. “Anael is, perhaps, the most loyal among your garrison, Castiel. She turned you in, played your friend, and when I told her to jump she, ha, literally asked ‘how high?’”

“That—sounds like misguidedness, not loyalty—” Castiel manages, and then cannot restrain his whimper when Anael’s grip tightens. Walking forward slowly, his patent leather shoes kicking up gray dust as he does, Zachariah smiles.

“Bite your tongue, or Anael may snap your little human neck,” he tuts with a cruel smile.

Castiel huffs a breath of disgust, turning his eyes back to Anael. Her eyelids droop, her mouth a line of pale pink, chapped lips that part slightly, unspoken words hanging on them. There is no interpretation of her expression; he realizes it’s as empty as her eyes. A canvas painted a shapeless black, for want of meaning, for need of some color.

“Would you?” he asks her in a small, restrained voice. It’s really his only way to speak, like a tentative, wounded animal, with his breath and voice restricted by her hands. “Kill me?”

Her gaze doesn’t falter. “If God commands it, so it shall be done.” She regurgitates it like the words are being whispered in her ear. As if she has been… _Educated_.

Castiel’s features collapse, a painstakingly bitter frown falling upon his face as sadness fills his being. It comes with a realization that Anna’s betrayal is only as vivid as Heaven’s torture, which must have come somewhere between Castiel fleeing Heaven and Anael finding him again. They must have _caught_ her, because she saved him. She let him fall from the fortress of Heaven, to protect him, and they took her and replaced her resolve with mindless obedience.

“Good girl,” Zachariah praises her, and then waves his hand. Anael immediately lets go of him, which results in his bound and tied body collapsing into the dirt. His cheek is the main casualty of the gravel digging into them once he’s on his chest. Castiel gasps a lungful of dust, blinking as he watches Zachariah approach, and then kick Castiel in the stomach until he rolls onto his back. Blood drizzles out of the side of his mouth, vision blurry. “Now, part two of my fun.” He chuckles to himself, and tells another angel, “Take him to the green room.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel is familiar with the green room, but has never been there himself. It’s plain and white, and one smudge of dirt would soil the entire decor. The room’s purpose is to act as a safehouse for important humans: prophets, hunters sometimes. It has the most trivial ability to summon a human’s favorite meal, one which Castiel might be able to take advantage of based on the emptiness of his stomach.

Before he can ponder the astonishing sensation of true hunger, Castiel is being shoved into a chair. For only a moment, his binds are free—his shoulder groans at the freedom and pain—before an angel is tying them behind his back again. His chin falls limp against his chest, his eyes fluttering open, and then shut, as he tries to force himself to _not_ lose consciousness.

He lifts his gaze from his lap, and his skin crawls with an indescribable pang of fear and dread when his eyes land on…Dean.

At first, his mouth dries because they—they must be manipulating the room’s magic to project Dean, to lay upon Castiel’s shoulders a false sense of despair. Dean should be safe and at home, trapped within the sigils—

—which were lain by Anael.

Castiel feels his chest sag at the reminder that he invited a wolf in sheep’s clothing, as the saying goes, into their home. Even if Anael was brainwashed, there is no repairing the damage Castiel’s incompetence to _realize_ he was being played has done on the situation. But Dean is here, he is alive.

And there is truly no imitation that could live up to Dean’s true life form. No angel could replicate the unique constellation of freckles across his nose, the tangle of his hair, the bow of his full, upper lip, which is pulled down in a grimace. Castiel’s eyes flicker to meet Dean’s, and he is met with glare that blows his pupils so wide that the green is just a thin band. Dean is not afraid, to Castiel’s dismay (he should be— _he should be terrified!)_ but he is caught between murderous and wrathful, if there truly is a median.

“Are you okay Dean?” are the first words that Castiel can mutter as he tugs against his restraints. He grows weaker by the second, but he will not fall unconscious now. He refuses. Though, sitting upright, he does see a glow coming from the bloody wound in his shoulder. It’s his Grace, leaking out, barely punctured, but it is definitely seeping out like celestial waste.

Dean doesn’t answer, but his eyes follow Castiel's, and then he presses his lips together. “So, it’s true.”

Castiel must explain himself—but the words don’t come easily with his wounds. His vocal chords throb from Anael having her fingers wrapped around his neck for so long, but he does manage to speak. “I am an angel,” he confesses, setting his jaw. “But I never lied. I came to protect you—”

“You did lie!” Dean cuts him off bitterly. “You lied about where you came from, who you are, _what you are._ You told me angels were out to get me, yet you’re one of them.”

“Zachariah, he must haven’t told you the whole truth—the archangel Michael—”

“—wants to wear me to the prom?” Dean cocks a brow. “Yeah, he told me ‘bout that. Also told me Lucifer wants my brother and that you were gonna let the devil have Sam.”

Castiel’s eyes widen and he shakes his head violently, lips flying open to _strongly_ protest that accusation. But he hears a snap of fingers, and his mouth is gagged, and all the words he tries to speak are muffled around that gag.

“Enough lies for the boy,” Zachariah says, feigning sorrow as he saunters over next to Dean. He lays a hand over Dean’s shoulder, false comfort. At the sight of Zachariah touching Dean, Castiel thrashes; Dean doesn’t _know_ the truth, and he doesn’t know everything. He surely cannot. Zachariah can make a good pitch, throw about a handful of hard facts, seasoned with fiction. And then, before Castiel can even defend his own actions, _tell Dean the truth,_ Michael will truly have Dean and everything shall be for naught. And Castiel will have failed to fulfill his future mission and save the man he loves most in the universe. “I told him that you’re a rebel, Castiel. That you siphoned power from heaven—” another false accusation that Castiel groans to protest “—and have been working with _demons_ this entire time. You think he wouldn’t find out Castiel? You think that the Righteous Man could be fooled by a perverted, renegade angel?”

“I can’t fucking believe I fell for this,” Dean bites out as he shrugs away from Zachariah’s hand. At least Dean isn’t falling for _all_ of the facade he conjures. He adds, “for _you_ ,” venomously as he drops his eyes to the floor. “I let you into my home! You ate breakfast with me, helped my brother with his freaking math homework, you even got my _mom_ wrapped around your finger—were you gonna give her up to the demons too? Were you?”

Castiel’s eyes sting as he takes the bereavement in completely, paralytic silence. He weakly shakes his head, neck rolling as he struggles to heave around the gag in his mouth. _No, no, no,_ he chants in his mind, wishing that at least one could grow on his lips.

“I trusted you, _Castiel,_ ” he hisses, stepping close enough that Castiel must gaze up to meet the glare waiting for him. They are hollow, unforgiving eyes that cause Castiel to feel as if he has been swallowed by ice, or by a lifeless fire that threatens to burn searing gashes into his strength. “I fucking _loved_ you.”

The walls break, and Castiel feels wetness pour down his cheeks, and he closes his eyes.

There is a pregnant silence that follows, an empty space in a story that Castiel regrets having a role in writing. He regrets ever feeling, ever wanting to be anything but what he is. He regrets doing what he thought was right, going against Heaven, because Heaven has Dean either way now. Except, now he has broken Dean, and thus is broken himself. 

“Yes,” he hears Dean say, answering a question never spoken. Castiel’s eyes snap open, stinging as the air hits them. Once his vision is clear, he eyes Dean several paces away, facing a painting. Castiel recognizes it; it is a renaissance canvas depicting Michael smiting Lucifer, sword raised and ready to pierce the lesser angel. Of course, the sword is not a weapon, but a vessel.

“What was that?” Zachariah asks. He sounds far too hopeful for Castiel’s liking.

“Tell your boss,” Dean says slowly, meeting Zachariah’s gaze with curl of his lip. “I say _yes._ Take me, whatever. We gotta kill the devil before he gets my brother.”

But Michael’s plan is to kill Sam! Castiel thrashes once more, barely garnishing any attention from Dean.

Zachariah smiles slowly, and the room becomes brighter. The furniture begins to shudder and Enochian chants fill his ears, so high pitched that his ear drums begin to crack and hot liquid—blood—drips from them. Dean is unperturbed, eyes wide and filled with wonder as light begins to fill them.

“Yes,” Dean breathes again, and again, until that one word becomes one with the chants, Michael’s chants, and the light explodes as the archangel takes his True Vessel, and disappears with an astoundingly loud flap of wings. In the wake of it all, is Castiel, still bound but no longer gagged. And he is completely alone.


	12. Unholy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He grabs Dean’s face, even if Dean has no rule over his body, he can still feel this. He can feel Castiel quickly weaving his sticky fingers through his hair, feels Castiel fight against unwilling and angry lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is the last chapter! But don't worry, an epilogue is coming Friday. Enjoy the finale you've all been waiting for.
> 
> The art in this chapter was a commission by Kvei on Tumblr! I love it so much, and I hope you do too!

_"When all are one and one is all_  
 _To be a rock and not to roll."_

**-Led Zeppelin, Stairway to Heaven**

 

* * *

 

Once his vision ceases being blotched, Castiel hangs his head. A dark, ominous chill crawls up his spine, makes his head spin and thoughts numb, and then spreads out into his limbs until he has lost all feeling except for a bitter emotion that frightens him. It is hate.

The sensation wraps around his pounding heart and constricts him—breaths come harder, and his body weakens in defeat as his chin falls against his chest. The coiled muscles on the back of his neck protest, but this is how his being commands him to act upon being a complete failure.

He has failed the world, and has failed Dean in a much crueler fashion. His dishonesty has resulted in Dean assuming the extreme. Dean hates him, absolutely now, and that alone extinguishes all hope—or desire—to be free.

A heavy flap of wings fills the room with a sudden breeze that combs through Castiel's hair. He picks up his chin and opens his eyes briefly, long enough to see who has returned. His eyes burn and he closes them, suppressing a hopeless sound that forms at the base of his throat.

"Shouldn't you be in Heaven waiting to embark?" As was the apocalypse was written, the prophets said that the angels would return to Heaven before descending upon Lucifer's forces in True Form. At this point, Lucifer may already be dead. He isn't exactly positive that time does not move differently in the green room.

"You are a danger to the mission," Anael answers, a void in her words where her ironic pride would like, if she were truly a traitor. His suspicions may be correct: that Anael only double-crossed him to follow orders. Orders that may be carved onto her consciousness with the blades of Reeducation.

The world may be ending and they—he—may have failed, but hope may still exist for Anael. She did not want to be Heaven's bitch, and to think of her own free will being locked in a cast iron harness sends a blaze of anger through him.

"Are you sure that Michael doesn't wish me to have a front row seat for the apocalypse?" Castiel meets her eyes and cocks an eyebrow. "Or us, rather?"

As he'd hoped, Anael recoils at the suggestion. "Michael has spared you a traitor's fate, Castiel. In his mercy he has given you safety.” She doesn't yell, not quite. It is too much of her original self, which is locked away behind a concrete wall of brainwashing. But, her fingers do wrap around the arms of the chair in which she sits. Castiel glances down to them, pressing his lips together to hide his smugness as her knuckles whiten.

"This room exists on Earth's plane," he tells her emphatically. "You, nor I, are safe from the raze. You are not so foolish, Anael, I know you are not."

"Fools cannot be as loyal as I have," she grinds out as she leans forward in her chair. Her azure eyes seem to drain of all remaining color as she glares at Castiel. “That makes you the greatest fool of all."

Castiel takes a steady breath. He knows that he is subtly chipping away at the wall, that he is close at freeing her from Heaven’s control. “You convinced me to fall.” He thinks that attempting to revive the emotions, the fear, the dire need to disobey the most demoniacal of plans, may spark something.

It does not.

“I did as I was told,” Anael says slowly, composure intact. “They told me you were weak. That you would do what you were told if I was the one to tell you. Loyalty to any except God cannot be allowed.”

Castiel thrashes against his binds, blood pulsing hot up his neck and into his face. “It wasn’t _loyalty_ that I fell for, Anna! It was—it was _love_. Don’t you understand? I know you understood.” His words come hurried, desperate, as he try to see past her. “You love humanity. You looked upon Earth from Heaven—you watched them, you loved them, and you couldn’t stand for children to be used like pawns in Heaven’s games. And because you loved me so, sister, you saw that I would not see this blinding light from below, if my eyes were never uncovered. And I trusted you, to open them.” He stares hard, heart throbbing with hope when he sees her lower lip shudder. “Now, please,” he whispers. “Please open your eyes for me. Anna, you can’t let the world burn. Let Michael destroy all we love.”

A series of emotions play in her eyes, although they are indistinguishable. The blind anger left Castiel with some hope at least—because angels are not supposed to feel anything except love for God. Rage is preferable, because it illustrates that she is not merely a machine.

Castiel squints, trying to read the emotions there. Months on earth didn't completely prepare him to read her as if she were an open book. The lines around her eyes, between her eyebrows, deepen, and a stuttering breath exhales through her nose. 

When Anael takes a breath, her whole body withers, collapsing upon itself. She hugs her own abdomen and her eyes flare open, wide and frantic.

They meet Castiel's gaze, and no words need to be spoken. Anael can see.

 

* * *

 

The house is quiet; Sam can hear the small sound of skin sticking and then quickly peeling from the hardwood floor as he paces down the hallway. The lights are all off, only the window in the main foyer giving light near the bottom of the stairway, and Sam cautiously grip the railing as he wades through the dark, relieved when his feet touch mid-day sunlight.

He realizes he slept longer than he should have, but last night’s festivities left his body numb while his dreams were wanton with nightmares that he _still_ can’t escape. He knows Cas did something—he’s not sure what, nor does he really have the guts to ask—to keep Lucifer, the devil, whatever, out of his thoughts though. 

But there were still all these dark images floating in his mind, some which were so vivid that he could taste the phantom flavor of blood dribbling past his lips, beading on his tongue, and then sliding down his throat. And he _likes_ it, because it quenches a thirst that doesn’t even exist until the nightmares come.

Grim thoughts and nightmares shouldn’t interfere with his days, though. Now, the sun hits his eyes and it’s so bright in his sleepy eyes that he looks away. The light overcomes, Sam will be sure of that.

“Mom?” he calls as he walks down the hall into the kitchen. All the lights are off there, too, but the counters haven’t been left untouched. Sam hears the whirr of the refrigerator, a slither of light leaking from a crack—where it’d been left open. He calmly presses on the door, shuts it, and then turns around on one heel. He faces the stove now, which has a pan that’s been battered, but the heat was never turned on.

Concern makes Sam worry at his lower lip, his teeth working at a ditch he made from biting it so much. “Mom—” he speaks into the darkness again, rounding the island in the center of the kitchen to glance into the dining room.

He hears the muffled high pitch sound before the light flips on, blinding him for only a second, but with open eyes, Sam is stunned into silence, and then driven into a maddening rage when he sees his mother: bound and gagged, blood smeared below her nostrils like she’s bled from her nose, probably because she was _punched_ based on the swelling around it and her eyes.

Sam’s fists clench at his sides and he sprints forward, ignoring Mary as she frantically shook her head.

(Don’t, don’t, it’s a _trap_ , were the words she tried to make around the rag stuffed down her throat, but they when on deaf ears as her baby stormed toward her.)

“—Ah, ah, ah, Sammy,” tuts a small, sickeningly sweet voice; its source is a small-framed girl with deep brown hair and eyes that were ebony emerged from the neighboring room with a hunting knife threaded through her fingers like a baton. Sam stumbles to a stop, his lanky legs tangling beneath him when he places the girl; he remembers that hair, those lips (he’d kissed those lips before, each time more secretive than the last, he never told Dean that), and the smirk they create as Ruby pressed her monstrous silver blade to his mother’s throat. “You really don’t want me to slit Mommy’s pretty throat do you?”

 

* * *

 

Once she’s regained control of her mind _completely,_ shedding the film of control that coated her consciousness, Anael touches Castiel’s cheek in a quiet apology. His eyes close and he moves his hand into the touch, basking in the warmth, the bond that was never broken, only damaged with a distance neither could control. Shortly after she reiterates a solemn apology through the touch, her skin glows against his and she heals the scratches on his face.

****

**ART BY[KVEI](http://kvei.tumblr.com/post/95112070526/commission-for-plaidcas-anna-and-castiel-in-a)**

Then Anna’s hand falls down his neck, the glow following her fingertips, and she traces a line to the puncture wound in his shoulder from which his Grace has been leaking out. The wound is hard to close, but she has all of her power, so it only takes a few seconds before she continues down his abdomen to heal the broken ribs and stop the bleeding from where he was kicked.

“How do you feel?” she asks him softly, tucking her hands in her lap, watching him.

Castiel stretches his limbs, feeling weaker than ever—but not with pain, just simply lack of power. He is so close to falling.

The worry—and very latent exhilaration— that comes with that fact does not leave his lips, though. “I’m fine,” he answers in a rough voice. He stands from the chair, leaving all his binds behind as he tentatively takes a step—and nearly crumbles beneath his own weight. Anna shoots up to catch him, covers a hand over his forehead and leans close, breathing against his face. Light filters through her lips as she exhales, a blue-and-white fog entering his own parted ones.

“—Your Grace,” Castiel objects, pulling away just as the energy is absorbed by every fiber of his body. It all but quenches the certain thirst for energy, but he feels much more—capable. He can stand, but his powers are still at arms length. “You shouldn’t weaken yourself like that, we still need you.”

“We need you too, Castiel,” she reminds him with a small smile. “I have plenty of Grace, and you had nearly none.”

He narrows his eyes and crosses his arms. “When my Grace is gone, it’s gone,” he tells her. He turns away, and he is facing the banquet table in the center of the room—on which canned sodas and burgers are spread. A pang in the bottom of his stomach speaks of hunger, but he only decides to satiate the thirst that dries out his tongue. 

As he pops open the can, Anna steps to his side, seeking his eyes. “I know what you’re saying,” she murmurs. “You wish to be human.”

Sweet liquid slithers down his throat, saturating his mouth, and he turns his face slightly to peer at Anael. “That is what we have spoke of, so many times. You wanted to fall once, too.”

“I still do,” she whispers to him, voice breaking. “And I will fall, I will let you fall. But I won’t let you die a human.” She considers him, tilting her head and saying even quieter, “A _martyr_.”

Castiel frowns, lines setting deep around his mouth, his eyes. “Martyr,” he says evenly, lips wrapping around the word with masked disgust. “Its connotation is sacred, and many of my actions have been anything but.” He thinks of this body, once belonging to Jimmy Novak. Despite his misguided justifications, he stole the young man’s body to pursue what he thought was a nobler cause. He played God the moment he banished Jimmy Novak to Heaven, and that is hardly a mistake he can repeat when his belief in God has been so greatly weakened—his faith has been weakened. “Martyrdom implies faith in something, which I am sorely lacking in.”

“You believe in Dean Winchester.”

The mention of Dean pulls at Castiel’s heart, and his eyes fall shut.

( _“I fucking loved you.”)_  

“I love him, and I believed that would be enough,” he replies sadly. “I was mistaken.”

“Then, maybe, you can believe in choice,” she suggests. “We knew our chances were thin, paper thin, but we believed that free will would prevail. Isn’t that what we want to preserve, what we were trying to save in the first place?”

“Free will,” Castiel repeats, heart falling deep into his chest, sinking slowly like a rock caught in a current of misguided faith. “Dean had that, when he said yes.”

“No, no he didn’t.” Anna’s lips press thin and her eyebrows pinch. “It wasn’t an educated choice. Zachariah took the truth from him.”

“So did I,” he reminds her. His voice wavers, misery weighing upon his conscience now.

 ( _“I trusted you!”)_

“But for the right reasons. And you have the chance to make it right, Cas, but you cannot wallow in this. I—I have done so much, so much more than you have. But I believe if I can just give a little more, fight harder…then I can begin to make things right.”

She speaks as though making amends is so simple. Castiel touches her hand, and nods, hoping the gesture may indicate the camaraderie they once shared so deeply. He wants that again, in some shape or form, even if he cannot fully trust her again.

He wants to trust her, though. He wants to give her the forgiveness he hopes he will receive from Dean.

If they succeed.

As his fingers slide from her skin, leaving a path of warmth, Castiel is filled with an abstract hope. He knows all too well that hope is dangerous, that it can lift one high so that they may crumble upon impact. 

Free will: angels seek to destroy it, and demons seek to corrupt it.

But Castiel hopes to preserve it. And that hope is something worth dying for.

 

* * *

 

Sam sits still in one of the four dining room chairs; two others are also occupied, one being straddled by Ruby, the other holding his mother.

His back is straight, shoulders square, and expression stoic as he searches his mom’s expression, eyes bewildered and brimmed with tears. _What do I do?_ He wishes he could ask; even if he did, she couldn’t answer with a rag shoved in her mouth.

The stillness of the situation is incredibly overwhelming. Everything is so _quiet;_ the beat of his heart thrums in his ears, blood pulsing to his limbs as adrenaline saturates his muscles, commanding him to do _something_. But, the sight of Ruby cutting little slices with the tip of her knife into his mother’s cheek is a noose around his neck, weights in the soles of his feet.

He can't help but glance around frantically, searching for something he can use to take out Ruby before that blade drops to his mom's neck and she presses too hard. Merely imagining sitting uselessly while he watches his mother bleed out is enough to drain the blood from his face. His fingers wrap around the edge of his seat. He is forcing himself to stay, because Ruby is being way too flippant with that knife; the smirk on her lips is remarkably innocent, like a kid with a coloring book.

"You're mommy is so very strong, Sam," she comments, pausing her ministrations to smear a strip of blood across Mary's cheek. When Sam jerks in his seat, Ruby notices and smiles widely. "You get some of that from her, you know. But you're special, she isn't."

Sam glares, but Ruby is—as he'd guess—unaffected. "Mama's boy, are we? That's okay, I'm a Daddy's girl, personally. That's why I'm here, you know: I want to take you home to see my dad. Unlike yours, he's around. He's everywhere," her voice fades to an amused whisper. "Including your noggin."

"Shut up," Sam snarls, his head throbbing with violent, red-painted memories. He doesn't want Ruby to know that the nightmares had affected him, but his reaction gives him away.

"He can take away all those emotions, Sammy," she soothes him, leaning forward with a sweet little Sammy. "The ones you told me about. The ones that make you feel...unclean."

Sam shuts his eyes, shakes his head. He told her that when they were hanging out, his confessions of inadequacy and taint muttered between kisses. Sam felt safe with her—accepted.

Mary whimpers around her gag, and Ruby snaps at her, "Shut up you bitch, this is your fault. You let a demon put his blood in your baby. Made him impure." She looks back at Sam, pleading. "I can help you, Sammy. Lucifer isn't like other demons." Ruby smiles, lips stretching across her cheeks. If Sam still had feelings for her, they were coming to the surface now. He felt sick for missing that smile, and even sicker when she crossed the space between them, kissed him firmly on the lips - but he didn't fight it. He let himself be sickened as the kiss makes a possessive note, her teeth drawing blood from his lower lip in the frenzy. Why didn't he fight it? 

"My dad's an angel, Sammy."

 

* * *

 

"One of my wards has been broken," Anna informs him as soon as they land in the front lawn. Castiel is glad she carried him, because he did not think his wings could even take flight if he tried. When his feet find ground, there is a strange flutter in his stomach that he can only describe as fleeting nausea. Anna catches his arm, steadies him, and her previous thoughts are detailed. "Castiel, are you alright?" She demands, gripping him tight as he inhales slowly. "I can give you more energy, before you hurt yourself."

"My previously stated sentiments haven't changed in the last twenty minutes," he replies tiredly. ”I'm simply not very fond of heights right now, is all."

Anna stares at him in disbelief, letting her hand drop away. Concern has only shifted, masked suddenly by the cock of her brow. "An angel, not fond of heights."

"Fallen," Castiel corrects.

"Fall _ing_ ," Anna amends again, a sad smile on her lips.

“I’m not in the mood to split hairs. Your wards—who broke them? What were their purpose?"

"The only ones capable—Zachariah and his...henchmen," she murmurs, not comfortable saying the word—one which is often attributed to human villains, at least according to all the westerns Dean had him watch. The amusement of Anna's word choice is immediately blemished by the thought of Dean, and Castiel becomes stern. "Why would they do that? "

"The ones I sense are... Not simply angel wards, they specifically repel monsters, and demons it seems. But they have been broken. The angels are making the Winchester house vulnerable."

"They have what they want," Castiel growls, turning his chin to gaze upon the house. Quiet, still. He can't sense anyone inside, but then again he can't sense much of anything.

"But the demons don't. They want Sam, even though he hasn't matured into a worthy vessel quite yet. They want him to be kept, groomed, and...fed. Angels think the final battle may not happen again until Lucifer is able take Sam."

Castiel's blood is cold, imagining his young friend stored away and bathed and fed blood like cattle. Except his slaughter would never come. Lucifer is too sadistic to ever relinquish Sam as Castiel had Jimmy Novak. Instead, Sam would witness the slaughter of billions through the eyes of a monster.

If the two archangels call a stalemate until Sam is of maturity, then Michael must have reasons for his urgency in taking his vessel early. Perhaps he wanted an upper-hand: time to adjust to his vessel. Though, it has been said that the Michael Sword is perfect and requires no adjustment, no adaptation. Castiel is inclined to agree that Dean is perfect, but not due to his bloodline, nor his compatibility with Michael. An edge of bitterness takes his vice as he turns to Anna.

"Angels are complacent with an even match? Two true vessels."

"It's how God intended it," Anna says sardonically, lips turning downward. "Michael considers himself just.”

"He is a coward who manipulated Dean—!" Castiel stops himself, trying to reel his emotions back so he can focus on the crisis at hand. He inhales to steady himself, then gestures to the house with an open fist. "Is anyone inside?"

Her eyes fall shut for a second, her scowl deepening. "Wards still block angels from sensing the interior. I don't remember being ordered to draw such a ward."

"I never added a sigil specifically to block sensing," Castiel responds. A cold, knowing sensation rolls up his spine, confirming his fears before he even voices them. "Can you tell if it's angelic?"

Anna shakes her head. "It could be."

"Then it is not."

 

* * *

 

Anna kills the demon swiftly. Under normal circumstances, the seizure of the Winchester home would have been strategic. But it was emotional, especially for Anna, whose limbs had tired from being pulled around like a marionette. If two lives, very precious to Castiel, did not hang in the balance, he would have interrogated the demon. He would have tortured it until he knew every thread of Lucifer’s plans, and then he would have burned its tainted soul from the shell of the body it stole. 

But Castiel did none of this. He watches Anna kill the liar, the one who has tried to tempt Sam from the very start, and then basks in the silence of her wake. It’s only after Anael lets her knife slip from her fingers, that he breaks from the reverie. He goes to Mary first and pulls the gag out of her mouth, and uses his blade to cut the zip ties around her wrists. They are red and chaffed from pulling against the plastic binds, and her face is all but shredded from dozens of small cuts across her cheeks and forehead. He his thumb against a patch of uncut skin, and apologizes to her with a sadness that seeps into each word. Then he closes his eyes, focuses the little energy he has left, and heals her marred face. It’s all he can do.

Once her pain is gone, she pushes from Castiel and goes to Sam, dropping to her son and wrapping her arms around his torso. Sam is… Sam seems lost. He responds to Mary’s hug after a brief moment of confusion, and he embraces her with a ferocity that begins with a sob from his lips, and ends with him shuddering in Mary’s arms. 

“It’s okay baby,” she soothes him, and Castiel can only watch and ache at the sight of such pain. He feels Anna touch his shoulder, and he understands. He understands fully now, the need for touch. It’s innately human—and not simply in the sense that humans can only experience it. Love exists in angels too, between Anna and him, between Castiel and so many of his other brothers and sisters. He only wishes that the other angels could harness that love and use it to fill the holes that Heaven fills with blind obedience and duty. A guise of loyalty to cover greed. To justify destruction. All in the name of love for a God who has not shown his face in the wake nor eve of Heaven’s atrocities.

After letting Mary and Sam have a moment to collect themselves, Castiel hesitantly steps forward and clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Sam, for what happened. I should have been here… to stop it.”

“It’s okay, Cas.” Sam blinks a few times before meeting his eye. “She. She told me that Dean said yes.” This must mean that Sam understands the weight of such an agreement. Castiel can see the pain, the remorse filling his eyes.

“Is it true?” Mary demands, still clutching Sam’s wrist as she grinds her jaw. “Did Dean say yes to that son of a bitch Michael?”

Sam’s brows pinch together a little harder. “You know? About all the angel stuff?”

“Honey, I know everything—you’re the one who shouldn’t.” Mary glares specifically at Castiel, then shakes the expression away to gather her thoughts. “Why the hell did Dean say yes?”

“Because I lied.” Castiel finds Sam’s eyes, letting his hardened expression fade so that the younger Winchester could see his pain—absolutely present, gnawing at him with every word that comes out of his mouth. “I lied to you, Sam. The truth is that I am an angel. I’m not human, haven’t been since the moment we met.”

Sam’s eyes widen and he shakes his head. “But—you—you _said…_ ”

“Angels wanted Dean, because he is the true vessel for...for the archangel Michael,” he explains. “One angel in particular wants you, because you are also an archangel vessel. It’s in your blood, your father’s blood…” Castiel lets the explanation die away, because bloodlines are irrelevant.

Sam breathes shallowly. “For the devil. Lucifer.”

Castiel confirms the two words with a slow nod. “I am your friend, Sam. I will always to protect you—at my own risk, and to my own detriment. I’m weaker than I have ever been, but I _will_ save Dean, I promise.”

“Ruby…” Sam starts again, sniffing and averting his eyes. “The demon. She told me that Dean was going to die, and that if I came with her I’d see him one more time. Lucifer promised me that. I can still feel him, Cas...what’s wrong with me?”

“ _Nothing,_ ” Mary growls and pulls him to her chest. “It’s my—my fault—”

“It’s no one’s fault, it was part of a grand design. A horrible and poorly made one,” Castiel interjects. Cooly, he comes to Sam and lays a hand over the boy’s shoulder. “I may ask too much of you, Sam. But I believe you are the only one who can bring Dean back.”

“What?” Sam murmurs, shaking his head fearfully. “What the hell can I do? I’m—I’m falling apart here, man.”

“Dean loves you, both of you,” Castiel replies as he looks to Mary as well. She is skeptical, eyes narrowed at him as he touches Sam’s shoulder. He squeezes it, then lets his fingers slide away. “Maybe if he can get in touch with that feeling, he can break free from Michael.”

“Is that even possible?” Anna breaks her silence from behind Castiel, causing him to crane his eyes to look over his shoulder.

Castiel doesn’t supply an answer, but the optimistic side of him wonders how much Heaven’s brainwashing is different from Heavenly possession. In that parallel, he finds all the hope he needs to pick up his shoulders and nod confidently.

“Sam is not going face-to-face with any more angels or demons or _whatever_ that would lay a finger on him.” Mary stands up, knees wobbling as she leans her weight on Sam’s shoulder. “He almost became the devil’s little chew toy, all over me and that bitch’s knife kink.”

“Mom—”

“No,” she cuts him off firmly. “You’re staying here. No—one of you—” she points to Anna and Castiel, “will take him far away, where no angels can touch him.”

“Impossible,” Anna mutters.

“Then _make_ it possible!”

“Mom!” Sam yells, his voice silencing the room, drawing all eyes to him. “I’m gonna go. Not because I have something to prove, or I think it’ll make me feel better about being a...what I am. I want to do this because Dean would do it. Dean would save me, because that’s what brothers do.”

“Sacrifice isn’t love, Sammy,” Mary tries to reason. Her voice falters, and her eyes begin to glisten as they fill with tears. Mary touches Sam’s cheek, and he closes his eyes and nods into the touch. “Dean wouldn’t want you to die.”

“But when you love someone, you would do anything for them. Cas seems to think that Dean can take control if he—if he has enough people there to...bring him back. Besides, it’s only a sacrifice if I fail. And if I fail, what’s the point of living anyways? So I can be put away and let freaking _Satan_ …” Sam closes his eyes. “I have to go. I have to see my brother. _Save_ my brother.”

Mary’s features collapse and she sighs, and it almost sounds like a sob. Hopeless. Breathless. She brings Sam to her chest and kisses the top of his head, murmurs a broken, “Okay.”

“I can hear the angels,” Anna says to them suddenly, breaking the fragile silence that had fallen over them. “They say Michael is here, at the cemetery...he’s calling upon Lucifer.”

“It’s the field for the final battle,” Castiel murmurs, eyes growing wide. “What happened to the waiting plan?”

Anna focuses, squinting as she channels the Host, listens to their singing that Castiel almost wishes he could hear again. Then, he appreciates the silence of his mind now. “Michael changed his mind.”

So this is it, Castiel thinks as his lips press together thinly. His last chance to fulfill his mission—his last chance to save Dean and the world. His skin crawls, his heart throbs painfully against his ribcage, but he lifts his chin. He accepts this challenge. Whatever happens, it will happen because of the choices that were made along the way. Castiel accepts responsibility for all the pain, the destruction, the chaos that will overtake the world. Perhaps if he had just been honest with Dean…

Regret will get him nothing in the coming moments, so he pushes it all from his mind.

“Then we must alter our plans as well,” Castiel declares. “We leave now.”

 

* * *

 

The knowledge that Castiel is marching into what will likely be his last battle would be more comforting if he had a garrison of angels behind him, or even a regiment that could move into formation.He looks up and wonders about Rachel, Hester, even Samandriel, the ones he knew best in the Garrison. Were they part of this grand plan of deception, did they haul Anna off to be Educated?

Angels share so much, intentionally. Their true forms are not contained, but ebbs of cosmic energy. Even unwittingly, angels mingle constantly. Right now, in the eve of a battle which has no known outcome, he has never felt more alone, never more in want of his brothers and sisters and the comfort their presence once gave him.

Comfort is the last thing he feels now; his body is weak, his shoulder sore from where an angel blade had plunged straight through. Anna could heal the wound, but there was an innate, ghost of a sharp sensation beneath his collar bone. 

He rolls the bone in its socket experimentally, wincing when the car turns a corner sharply. Anael said they had to travel by car because she could not carry three humans by way of her wings. Castiel falls into that category by default because he cannot fly. Castiel finds himself loathing the backseat, where each turn makes his stomach churn with nausea; and then the unwanted soreness of his body is perpetuated by the uncareful twists and turns Mary makes.

“Have you two figured out where Dean will be?” Mary asks from the front. Castiel peers up into the rearview mirror, shaking his head when he meets her eyes. “Then—tell me where the hell I’m going. Where we need to check.”

Castiel is wary of the desperation in her voice. He isn’t at his calmest, but war has always brought a stillness about him. It’s an instinct that allows him to compartmentalize his sorrow for Dean along with his rage, so that he may focus on what he was created specifically to do. Strategize.

“Did they not tell you, Anna?” Castiel asks her tersely, turning his eyes to gaze out the side window. The solstice has started, casting a massive blue and white haze in the sky that humans cannot see. It’s one sign that he hasn’t fallen completely, seeing that veil between Earth and Heaven at its thinnest.

“I suppose they never entrusted me with that knowledge.” Anna stiffens, following Castiel’s gaze out the window. She leans over across his lap, watching the sky flicker with celestial colors. Her eyes begin to widen and she leans into the space between the two front seats.

“Cemetery,” she breathes, looking at Mary, and then through the windshield as soon as Mary heeds her commands and twists the van down a side street. They now stare directly at what seems to be the center of the lights, though they are not close yet. “The lights are the souls, and the bodies—corpses below—are calling for them.”

“What lights?” Sam asks, the first words he’s spoken since they left the house.

Castiel immediately leans forward, pressing up against the back of Mary’s seat so that Sam will be able to simply turn to see him. 

“The winter solstice is the period in which the veils between Earth and Heaven and Hell are thinnest. It corresponds with the sun’s distance from the earth simply due to the omnipotent wisdom which is my Father,” he tries humorously.

“God is freaking hilarious,”Sam mumbles, petulance woven in his tone as he gazes warily through the windshield. It is then that Castiel sees precipitation has begun, heavy and thick flakes of snow drifting to the ground, sticking to the windshield before melting.

Castiel half-smiles, squinting slightly in thought. “I believe he was trying for irony.”

“Truly,” Anna agrees, musing as she touches Castiel’s shoulder conversationally. “That the darkest day of the year may be the one which Man is closest to Heaven, that’s our Father’s irony at its finest” Anna muses. 

“And to Hell,” Castiel adds, and then settles his wandering gaze back on Sam. His eyes haze, and darken. “Souls scratch at these veils; souls are pure energy and light, and are visible to angels during this time. I imagine that it is not unlike your aurora borealis.”

“If we’re looking for Dean, why are we following the souls?” Mary asks, and Castiel hears the impatience in her voice. She is not calm, not steady. She is a mother scorned, and he must imagine the breath of her sorrow for losing her first born, her beloved Dean. He does not like empathy, as it wears at the thin barrier that keeps his grief and wrath at bay.

“Because the souls are powerful,” he explains warily. He recalls the Nucleus—the center of Heaven and the center of all power. But it is not only there that all souls lie; the energies are projected within the globe, and throughout the entire plane which God designated as ‘Heaven’. And on this days, the souls unwittingly seek to roam and escape, though Heaven would never allow that door to open. From the inside, at least. “Because both archangels know that they will need souls to win the battle, and it will become a matter of who has the most. Likely, Michael is the victor. Or so it is written.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re falling apart at the seams, brother.”

Michael does not have to turn around to sense his brother’s approach, to smell the scent of burning, rotted flesh. Even an archangel’s grace cannot prevent decomposition when its ill-fit insides are constantly being blasted away like sandpaper against wood.

“This was meant to be temporary,” answers Lucifer, voice dark and slighted.

Finding the petulance in his brother’s tone amusing, Michael turns around and smiles. “You haven’t changed.” Then his face falls, because seeing his brother—contained in such horrid conditions, a wrong vessel—is harrowing. And, even worse, laying his eyes upon Lucifer also means that proverbial gong has rung. The battle will begin—

“—We don’t have to fight,” Lucifer says quickly, as if he could read Michael’s mind. “Our Father put this plan in motion, and it has torn us apart. We can _be_ who we want to be.”

“Is this what you wanted to be?” Michael asks him.

Lucifer looks down at his body. Beneath the dirty, bloody clothes are holes everywhere, from which blood and Grace leaks. He touches his own stomach, and then rubs his fingers together, red and sticky. His eyes narrow. “I wanted so much more, but Father wouldn’t let me.”

“I wanted more too, Lucifer,” Michael tells him, lowering his head. “I wanted to live in paradise with my brothers, forever. We had everything. But it wasn’t enough.”

“God _made_ me this way,” Lucifer bellows, emotion rich and angry in his tone.

Michael sighs, and takes a step toward his brother. Lays a hand on the shoulder, resists frowning when Lucifer cringes away. Things like this were once so easy. “I know,” he says quieter. “I wish He hadn’t.”

 

* * *

 

“There!” Sam exclaims, pointing through the windshield. The van shakes and rattles as it diverges down a dirt road, and they are coming upon the oldest part of the cemetery. Castiel breathes, and leans forward to squint through the glass. His heart sinks when he sees Dean—or dMichael in Dean’s body—poised and livid when he sees sight of the car.

“You must distract Michael, while I open the portal for Lucifer,” Castiel says to Sam and Mary. “I believe to satiate Dean’s wishes, Michael will not kill you—especially not you, Sam.”

“Because I’m a friggin’ vessel,” he mumbles.

Mary takes the keys out of the ignition and grabs onto Sam, kisses the top of his head and then pauses to breathe him in. “Just be okay, Sam, be okay, _please_.”

Sam nods, and wraps his long arms around her torso. He doesn’t make a promise.

“Anna,” Castiel starts again, voice shaking. “You have to keep Lucifer from killing me long enough for the portal to open. And then we must push him in.”

“I can do that,” Anael replies quickly. “Castiel, I am sorry—“

“Don’t,” Castiel stops her because if this is what it sounds like—a goodbye—then he doesn’t want her last moments to be filled with sorrow. “I forgive you, and I—I will always love you as my sister, even if we both die, if the world burns…”

Anael touches his face. “It won’t,” he tells him soothingly. Even if she is not certain, Castiel finds comfort in her skin against his, and calm words telling him they may survive.The warmth of the touch dissolves when Sam opens the passenger’s door, a gust of cold air billowing inside the small space of the car. Anael drops her hand to the collar of Castiel’s jacket, pulls it snug below his chin. And then she opens her door and whispers, “Wait.” Not a command. A request.

Castiel’s brows furrow, and the question—‘for what?’—hangs on his breath, but he can already hear the archangels noting their approach. Castiel ducks behind the headrest, hearing the exchange on the wind.

“Anael, you were supposed to guard Castiel,” Michael bites out, eyes narrowed as he looks between the two humans, and then back to her. “Did Castiel convince you to save his little pet?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she murmurs back. Her body sways, like she is about to sprint toward Michael, but then her back bows and her blade is arching straight for Lucifer’s chest. Her arm stops in midair though, and Castiel watches in terror as Lucifer twitches his hand, and her elbow snaps backward and she screams so loudly the wind seems to be no more, and the bitterness of winter becomes even colder. Castiel hears her whimpering, but her request whispers past the echoes of her cries—some of the first words on this journey together, words that have consoled Castiel through it all.

_God asked asked us to protect humanity, not destroy it._

He inhales and grasps for the rings deep within his pocket. Anael had given them back as soon as she knew what she had done; she herself did not even know when she had been reeducated. It could have been immediately after Castiel had fallen, or woven between one of their many visits. Castiel suspects, but cannot know. The uncertainty chewed away at her willingness to wield the weapon that could end this war.

The Horsemen’s rings vibrate like they are alive. They must sense that their purpose is soon to be exploited. Or, they may be responding to the souls. They are indeed electric, lively—powerful. Castiel stays crouched in the backseat and carefully slides his feet to the ground. Dry dirt and dead grass crunches beneath his feet, but it is muffled by the sound of more bones breaking, more screaming. 

_“Bvtmon tabges babalon,”_ Castiel whispers, squeezing the rings tight in his fist. They meld into each other, like magnets but stronger, and grow fiery hot in his hand. He tosses them several meters away, and extends his hand, letting the remainder of his Grace expedite the spell. “ _Beh voh tah mo—“_

“Castiel,” growls Michael, and he flies so that he is standing right in front of Castiel. “You _insolent—”_ The archangel grabs him by the wrist, bends it back, snapping the ligament. Dean’s hand does this, hurts him like this. But he can rationalize this is not Dean, not his beloved.

Castiel cries out in pain, but whimpers out, “ _En tah…beh geh sah…”_

And then Michael, livid and blindingly angry (he has never Dean’s eyes so dark, so terrifying), grips his other hand around Castiel’s windpipe and squeezes. “Even without Anael’s rouse, this apocalypse would have occurred,” he says quieter, almost soothing (like Dean would soothe him, _Dean are you there?_ ) as Castiel squirms and mouths the rest of the spell, unable exert a single breath. His voice box may be broken, as everything in his throat seems to collapse around Michael’s grip. “What you call free will is nothing but an illusion.”

With an air of finality, Michael throws Castiel to the ground. The air is knocked out of him, but then soon he finds himself able to breath—to whimper in pain as he claws at his own throat. He can’t _speak_ he can’t finish the spell. Castiel blinks, finding that Anael lay crumpled and covered in her own blood next to him. Her blue eyes blink many tears, but she watches Castiel. She sees him.

“Now that they are out of the way,” Michael says, gaze falling upon Sam and Mary. “I know, this form must frighten you. But I will not hurt you, Mary Winchester.”

“You son of a bitch,” Mary grinds out. “Get out of my son, get out of my son or I swear to—”

“God?” Michael mocks, cocking his head. “This is exactly what God wanted.” Michael looks at Sam through Dean’s eyes, and licks his lips as Dean would. Castiel, limp and silenced knows that Dean is inside, prays to _something_ that the presence is more than an enslaved soul. Dean is strong, strong hearted and strong willed.

“Please give me back my brother,” Sam whispers as Michael leans in.

Michael ponders the question, and then answers, “No.”

“ _Cas…”_ Castiel hears from beside him. Arm shaking, he scoots his hand across the ground. He is able to push his fingers against her shoulder. He tries to soothe her, nods his head. It’s okay, he wishes he could say, console the looming shame behind her bloodied, marred face. 

Her lips quiver, and he shakes his head. She should just drift now, drift before they can come back and obliterate them from existence. Easing from this world they have both come to love so much would be preferable. Castiel won’t see that escape. “ _Ba…”_ she manages, and looks not to Castiel. How does she even know the rest of the incantation? She looks toward their feet. Beyond there, the rings lay, whirring as the energy from Castiel’s spell. The energy is fading, continues to fade with each second. But they don’t die yet. “ _Ba ba…lo…en._ ”

A burst of energy explodes from beneath them, and the ground gives away. A force pulls toward the center of _something,_ an incredibly dark and powerful center, and it is like gravity but so much more like a siren’s song. He can hear fire, he can hear a tempting kind of terror, terror that promises escape and—and power. It must be a lie, so he crawls. He has no more Grace, that he is sure of, but he has something else—a soul, or as close to one as a fallen angel can have. It is the spirit that will him to fight, to pull away from where the dirt and bedrock crumbles into an abyss. He reaches for Anael but she is already gone. 

Castiel, once to safety, looks up long enough to see Anael shoving Lucifer with all her might, maybe with a blade wedged between his ribs—he cannot tell—and they both tumble like boulders into that abyss.

His eyes widen, and his throat dryly silences his attempts to call for her. 

She did not want him to be the martyr.

So she became the martyr.

Tears of sorrow, not bodily pain, fill his eyes as he gathers his sore body. Each muscle demands that he lay back down, but he demands that they shut up. His vision is stained with splotches of black and white, dizziness he thinks. But the force is gone. The cage is sealed.

They did it.

The sweet moment of victory, of hope, dissolves too quickly; Castiel looks up to see Michael gathering the Horsemen’s rings and storing them in his pocket. Michael’s jaw works, nostrils flared as he looks into the void where Lucifer’s portal once was. He holds Dean’s body like a regent, a royal, but he works his bloody hands like a monster when he snaps his fingers. Castiel flinches.

He feels a wave of warm liquid splash against his face, not like rain or snow. Castiel opens his eyes, and sees himself covered with—with blood.

“No use having an extra vessel lying around,” Michael grinds out, features heavy and dark, covered with the same fluid dripping down Castiel’s face.

The truth dawns upon Castiel as quickly as Mary’s screaming erupts throughout the cemetery.

“No!” Castiel hoarsely cries, barely a sound but filled with all the air his lungs could expel. His heart thrums and aches as he frantically tries to wipe the blood—Sam’s blood, oh God, _why Sam?_ —from his face, from his body. It sticks, dries quickly in the cyclone of cold air swirling around them. It cakes into his dry skin. The cracks of his lips. He can taste it, _God_ , but he can’t wipe it away. Castiel cries and his stomach pulls and tugs until bile forces itself past his lips. He wipes it away, and Mary screams.

And then Mary charges at the archangel, baring the blade Castiel gave her.

_Don’t,_ he thinks but does not have time to say, when Michael smacks his hand across her face. The strike is hard enough to break her neck. Castiel hears it, clear as day, when her screams go silent and her body hits the ground. More bones crack, but she doesn’t cry out any more.

The only sound Castiel hears now is the thrumming of his heart in his ears, like a hummingbirds wings, and the rustling of fabric as Michael nonchalantly brushes the palms of his hands against the thighs of Dean’s jeans. He looks angry, still, but more calm—more pleased with himself.

Castiel tries to stand, but he cannot rise beyond his knees. He collapses, palms digging into the ground in front of him. He looks up at Michael, lips trembling as he meets the archangel’s gaze. “You are a monster,” he croaks, breath sounding more like words than simple noise. He clears his throat, and the sensation is sandpapery and painful. “You killed…you killed them…you told Dean you wouldn’t.”

Dean’s lips turn up in a smile, so crooked and _wrong._ Not him, not him at all. The archangel bends down, crouching directly in front of Castiel, so close that he can feel breath against his face. “Lucifer is not the only prince of lies.”

The proximity, being a breath’s distance from the mightiest archangel in heaven, is terrifying. Even if he fails in every other area, nothing will break him more than the reality that he failed Dean. Through his lies, through his mistruths, he has lead Dean to this place. From that ‘yes’ to the use of his own hands to murder his family—Castiel brought him to this nightmare.

He _must_ bring Dean back.

So he does the only thing one can do without a weapon, without the apt words to speak: he closes the distance between his lips and Dean’s. He grabs Dean’s face, even if Dean has no rule over his body, he can still feel this. He can feel Castiel quickly weaving his sticky fingers through his hair, feels Castiel fight against unwilling and angry lips. And Castiel has an even riskier idea, when he fits his hand over Dean’s shoulder. Though covered by fabric, he knows that his touch has masked the mark he gave to Dean. That is the moment when the lips not only resist, but they stutter. That is when Michael swiftlyreclaims control of the situation, pulling his arm back and cracking his knuckles across Castiel’s jaw. He hopes that Dean can feel his mandible break, hear his whimper as he falls back to the ground.

“Dean’s not here any more,” Michael growls and grasps him by the collar of his jacket, and slams a closed fist into Castiel’s nose this time. The bones break, blood spouts from his nostrils. It mixes with Sam’s, creating a disgusting crimson mask across Castiel’s skin.

“Michael took your family!” he shouts, spitting up blood as the words come. “Don’t let him take your will.

_Hit._

“Please.”

_Snap._

“De—ean, you can _hear_ me—”

_Hit._

“— _Need you_ ,” Castiel tries, but the words are hardly clear. They are spoken past swollen lips and a tongue mangled from his broken teeth grinding against the flesh. His eyes close, and Castiel tries not to welcome the darkness behind the lids, darkness that seems far too ethereal to be psychological. The tempting comfort that lies beyond being beaten to death. “ _Listen_.”

The next—the final—blow that Castiel anticipates, it doesn’t come. It is replaced by a gasp, not from his own lips but from Michael’s.

From _Dean._

Castiel looks up, most of his vision taken away by his swollen eyes. The blood caked into his lashes. His body aches, but it hasn’t been beaten enough to be rendered useless. He rolls up onto his knees, as Dean staggers back. He reaches into his pocket and brings out a fist. Opens the fist.

The rings fall out and to the ground and he says, with unfamiliarity, “ _Nolabab segbat…nomtvb._ ”

_“Dean,_ ” Castiel murmurs. Because it’s _him,_ that is the incantation in reverse. His heart thrums, because his Dean is here, he’s back, he is awake—alive.

His motions quiver, as he tries to stand. He can’t will his muscles to strain for so long, so painfully long, so he moves to crawl toward Dean, even as the spell ignites the rings and they merge and spin into the air.

“Don’t,” Dean calls above the growing wind. 

Castiel looks at him, and shakes his head. _No,_ he’s not going to—he’s—Dean is going to drive himself into the portal. It can’t come to this, not after everything. The sacrifice was Castiel’s to make, not Dean’s.

“I came to save you!” Castiel yells at him, pain etching itself into every word. “I came to protect you.” The wind whips around, spraying debris into his eyes, forcing him to squint, but he refuses to close them.

“I…” Dean begins, straining to speak, and offers a modest smile. “I’m glad you came.” The expression falters, his body jutting, limps jerking.

“Dean…”

“Still me,” Dean manages, tightening his fits. “But now it’s time for me to save the friggin’ world from this—this _douchebag_.” His voice breaks, and Castiel breaks with him, sharing in that sorrowful realization that Michael has slaughtered his family. Castiel shares his sorrow, but he did not lose his brother. His mother. He lost Anael, though, and he is about to lose the shining star in his dark existence.

Is it selfish to risk losing the world in favor of keeping the one you love?

Yes, Castiel concludes, but he doesn’t care.

“Another way,” he tries, mumbling, and starts to crawl again. Dean shakes his head.

“No, you’re not coming with me, damn it—I can barely hold him off, he’d kill you up there, you’d be safer here.” He holds up his hand and says faster, “ _Ne hop hab has, heb tah—”_

Castiel is so close to him now, one more long crawl and he has his fingers on Dean’s pant leg, pulls him off his balance.

Dean tumbles down into the cold, frostbitten grass, but continues to try to pry himself away from Castiel. “I have to—finish this before he takes me back—“

“He won’t,” Castiel promises, and reaches out for the knife Dean has been keeping in his back pocket. A simple hunting knife, with a tip sharp enough to skin a small animal. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes quietly before he grabs onto Dean’s arm and begins to _carve_.

Dean shouts and pulls, begs Castiel to stop. Castiel can’t, not until he is finished. Enochian symbols carved into his own mind from the dawn of angelic existence whisper through his thoughts, come from the tip of his blade and into Dean’s skin, from his elbow to the the tip of his middle finger.

Roughly, hundreds of little tiny symbols translate into, _banishment._

Castiel tosses the knife away when the sigils are carved satisfactorily. He tries to ignore the writhing and crying coming from his beloved, but can only manage to apologize over and over. He takes Dean’s other hand, places it over the sigils. Even that is beyond the realm of painful.

“Repeat after me,” Castiel says hurriedly. “ _Noasmi niiso._ ”

“What?”

“Just do it Dean, do it now. Please.”

Eyes wide, he complies, repeats the short enochian spell. Glowing erupts from the paths Castiel carved and Dean begins to seize, and momentarily a scream becomes a liquid-like torrent of energy, of Grace, and Castiel whimpers happily as the archangel recedes from Dean. As soon as it has left, Dean collapses and he is completely unconscious. But he breathes, his pulse thrumming beneath Castiel’s fingers when they presses against his neck.

The archangel is disoriented, but the siren of Heaven is not unlike that one Castiel heard when Lucifer’s cage was opened.

His last hope.

He picks up the spell where Dean left off.

_“Heg heb tah ne om hat, hov heb!”_

The portal opens wide, and swallows Michael swiftly.

And knowing that it fulfilled its purpose, it closes too.

There is a resounding _ping_ , the rings falling from the sky and breaking from each other. Separate as they should be, they encircle Castiel as he clings to Dean. But, the power of the spell has sucked him dry. Unlike exhaustion or hunger or pain, this sensation inspires Castiel to embrace the nothingness that washes over him, like a typhoon, a massive flood meant to wash away any evidence he touched the world.

In the calm that follows, Castiel’s body gives up. The ground calls for him, so he accepts the invitation. His last thought is that at least he fell beside Dean.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> Incantation to open the cage:  
> (Open the) mouth (to the) cave (of the) wicked one
> 
>  
> 
> (Noasmi niiso) Enochian banishment spell:  
> Be gone.


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Rejoice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is it! What an incredible journey this has been, guys. I wouldn't have been able to complete this story without the help of some very important people.  
> First I will thank Kenzie, because I love her and all her ideas and all of her feedback. You were along for this ride as much as I was and I will never thank you enough for pushing me toward the finish line.  
> Thanks again, also, to the fine folks @ The Scribe Network for your help when I asked. Once again, so thankful.  
> And I just want to thank the entire Dean/Cas fandom for putting out so many awesome stories and inspiring me to donate this story I've held close to my heart. I've never written nor published this large of a work. I only hope that everyone who has read it beginning to end enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.
> 
> THANK YOU EVERYONE, and enjoy this send-off. And make sure to subscribe to the 'Verse for any time stamps I put out in the future! (I will also take any suggestion in this category. I PROBABLY WILL WRITE IT eventually, you only need to request it ;)

There are many voices.

Some he can place, most he cannot. He mostly thinks that they are of his mind’s creation, threaded together by memories of Heaven and Earth in order to cope with the vast darkness of his thoughts—an unconsciousness that could better be described as being on the edge of death. It’s a constant sensation of falling, yet his existence has never felt more stagnant. He can’t move his body, can’t make a sound.

But the voices, they remind him that he is alive. Because he can’t possibly have a Heaven, right? He is an angel, destined to become the salt of the earth when his duties are completed. And his duties _are_ finished. 

He vaguely feels pain, soreness centralized in his face and neck ( _hit, hit, punch, thrash)_ and his mouth is numb _(thrash, bite, grind, scream)_ but he has distractions. The voices. Who are they, he wonders, because this state of mind doesn’t necessarily allow him to form names and faces in his thoughts. Instead he associates the voices with emotions—bright and alarmingly vivid emotions. When did he start feeling so much? He feels fear, fear of failure, failing someone. Most vivid of all is the love he feels for souls (he remembers their brightness, even before that sense of vision began to fade).

The voices eventually become clearer, after an indeterminable time.

Bells, church bells ringing above the chapel of St. Michael’s, that’s what the growing volume of the voices remind him of. They start out soft yet filling, and then they ignite the air with music and a sound that brings about celebration.

_Rejoice_.

One voice comes to him as he slips out of the dark.

“Castiel,” it says, a warbled and hoarse. It is a name that sounds familiar when he tries to form it in his thoughts. It rings with memories, memories of having a mind so immense that its knowledge could fill the universe, spill over, and consume the untouched worlds beyond. He remembers being called that, when that mighty bend from long ago breathed into him and gave him life. He remembers God.

He remembers he is Castiel.

The barrier holding back _everything_ breaks, and through the leaks come waves of memories—he remembers being an angel, being infinite in more ways than one, and he remembers earth. He remembers finding it disgusting and primeval, seeing humans through a window of disdain. Those memories span centuries. Yet, the most powerful of all his memories, the ones that invade his mind last, only span a few months. He remembers the first trickles of empathy upon his psyche, and the rebellion that followed; he remembers two boys, so precious and kind and brave, and he remembers the love that he came to have for them. In fact, he _loves_ them still—the feeling is a vibrant hum inside him, rising above the static of all his other emotions.

Until he remembers losing them. All of them.

He feels his body seize upward, jerking at restraints he did not see before, tearing at him painfully. In his mind he sees himself reaching out to capture her, _Anael,_ before she tumbles into the pit along with Lucifer. And he feels the ghost of blood dripping down his face, his own brought upon by Dean’s fists that were no longer Dean’s. By Sam’s blood, which belonged in a body that no longer existed.

Love and pain go hand in hand, down this narrow road of memories. He wants it to stop. Needs them to stop.

He opens his eyes, and hopes that he finds himself in Heaven, not Hell. He may deserve the former, but the latter is is prayer.

“Cas,” a new voice comes, a syllabic version of his name, the sound more coarse than the last. Castiel looks for it, still tugging and pulling on what he now sees are hands. Holding him down. _Prisoner._

“Listen to me and stop moving. You’re going to hurt yourself.” The first voice again, higher pitched he realizes. More forceful.

If Castiel weren’t twisting and writhing in terror, he would scoff at that—the danger is here, is now, embedded in one of his wrists as strong bodies pin him down. That’s all he can see.

“ _Castiel,”_ says the second voice, though now it rings with far more familiarity and more force. It makes Castiel pause, blots the bright white terror from his vision long enough to find an anchor in this state of mind. 

He finds it, in a pair of green eyes that smother the terror, and ignite the torn fibers of love in him.

_Dean,_ he mouths, because his throat is thick with exhaustion and cannot form the word. He blinks rapidly to clear his vision, only for his eyes only fill with hot tears upon seeing the one who pulls him back, who stands beside him, who calms him. His chest swells as he takes in the boy, the white pallor of his skin, the worried smile that tugs his mouth in hall directions. 

“You’re awake,” Dean says, like he cannot believe it himself.

Castiel takes a moment to be amazed at this fact, because he should not be. He felt death, a cold and tempting siren that only embraced him when Castiel knew his job was finished. He didn’t expect to open his eyes and find his beloved beside him.

He also doesn’t expect the pain, pain that strikes him suddenly. He gasps, and then regrets it, as his cracked ribs protest against the filling of his lungs. His arms and legs hurt, too, fractured and healing. The pain is excruciating, though he knows it is being numbed to absolve the freshness of his wounds.

“I can ask the nurse to bring you morphine,” comes a voice from the other side of him. Castiel cranes his neck slowly, squinting up into a halo of florescent light. His jaw drops, mouth fumbling with her name because it _can’t_ be—

“Mary?” he manages, “it can’t be.”

“You’re right,” she replies, resting a hand on his wrist. “But, coming back to life is part of the family business.” She gestures behind her, where… _Sam_ fidgets in a chair, watching Castiel with wide eyes that haven’t been tainted of their innocence yet.

(Snap. _Blood_ )

“What did you do?” Castiel hears himself say weakly, breath picking up despite the protest of his ribcage. He directs the question again, harder, toward Dean. He was the only one alive when Castiel shut his eyes. Bleeding and carved up by his own pocket knife, but alive.

( _Crack_. Silence.)

“I didn’t,” Dean says calmly. “No demon deals, no _angel_ deals, just. I woke up, and I was in an ambulance, mom by my side, holding Sammy. And you were in the gurney next to me.” There, there is where his words falter and his gaze fills with regret. “You were a goner, Cas.”

Castiel is at a loss, thoughts congested with the possibilities…could God have intervened, finally, when the world needed him most? But what gain was to come for the world by saving Mary and Sam, by reviving him from whatever angelic afterlife awaited? When Castiel banished Michael’s Grace from Dean and ushered him up into the portal, that was the end of the apocalypse.

No one else was meant to be saved.

“There is no explanation,” murmurs Cas, and he licks his dry lips.

“Do you need one?” Sam speaks up. “Like, dad always says don’t look gift horse in the mouth.”

“I believe Castiel is concerned, validly,” Mary tells Sam, looking between him and Dean. “In my experience—a _hunter’s_ experience—miracles always come with a high price.”

At this, Castiel realizes that much must have transpired while he was unconscious. Sam and Dean are very well aware, now, of their mother’s association with the supernatural. It was a secret Castiel kept, as it was never his to tell, but he is glad that he won’t have to hide his knowledge any longer.

Nevertheless, her point is valid and in the same vein of Castiel’s concern. Life, above all, is a costly miracle. He wonders about hidden consequences of imprisoning two of the most powerful angels in the world, but he hardly thinks that such act would encompass bringing two humans back to life.

Castiel is about to voice his concerns to that matter, when a small knock comes on the door of his hospital room. After a beat, it opens, and a doctor comes through the door. The man is vaguely familiar, with olive skin and black hair, both of which contrast against his white lab coat. Dean looks like he has just been slapped, mouth hanging open as he stares at the man unguardedly.

The doctor pays no attention to him, but simply grabs the clipboard at the end of Castiel’s bed.

“Mr. Novak,” the doctor says, his voice thick with a Spanish accent. He puts down the clipboard and rounds the bed, nudging Dean to move (he does so begrudgingly). The doctor reaches into his lab coat and retrieves a flashlight, and clicks the base, then shines it into Castiel’s eyes. “How are we feeling today?”

Castiel winces, not prepared for the light to hit his corneas. “Fine.”

“You have been in a coma for over a week now, are you aware?” He clicks off his light.

Rubbing his eyes, Castiel answers, “I am now.”

The doctor cocks an eyebrow. “I think you could use a snowcone, eh? Snow cones make everyone feel better. _Son sabrosa,_ eh?” The doctor smiles, and looks at Dean. “What if you and your family went and got snow cones in the cafeteria while I clean Castiel’s bandages?”

“O…kay,” Dean answers, swallowing hard as he gets up. Sam and Mary follow him, who also peer at the doctor with a look of familiarity that mirrors Castiel, though he cannot identify from where he knows the doctors face.

When Sam shuts the door behind him, the doctor sighs and falls into the chair beside his bed. “Finally,” he says, accent falling away. And so does his facade.

Smug and relaxing in the hospital chair, Gabriel crosses his ankle and summons a snow cone into his hand and takes an exhaustingly slow lick. “So now that you’re awake, you should know that you’re officially badass, Castiel. You know, Heaven is pretty much scared shitless after what you did.”

“What are you doing here?” Castiel asks, and then adds on confusingly, “And what do you mean?”

“I mean, man, you _did_ it. You stopped the world from going to hell, and you _died_ doing it. That self-sacrifice bullshit is the number one way into Heaven’s history books.”

“I didn’t die, though.”

“But you _did,_ dumbass,” Gabriel says with a smirk. “And someone brought you back.”

“ _Someone,_ ” Castiel echoes, eyes narrowing. “You mean _you_?”

Gabriel vocally scoffs at that, and he snaps his fingers, ultimately snapping his snow cone away. He then leans forward and pokes Castiel in the stomach— _ouch—_ and smiles as Castiel tries to wiggle away from the prodding finger. “No, even I don’t have the power to revive an angel’s Grace, let alone abracadabra it into a human soul.”

That would be absolutely impossible, angels don’t have _souls,_ even when they fall, become human, what gave them life never truly goes away when they rip out their grace. Castiel did nothing of the sort, anyhow—he didn’t rip out his Grace and plunder his existence into a human state. His power dwindled—he felt the end, a threaded needle at its last stitch—until he, his Grace, was nothing.

“A soul,” Castiel finds himself repeating. “That would mean…only _God_ has ever created a soul.”

He expects an amused remark from Gabriel, promptly followed by a proper explanation, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the archangel merely arches a brow, watching as the gears turn slowly in Castiel’s mind. “God brought me back.”

“That, brother, seems to be the popular theory.”

“ _Why?_ I always hoped I was fulfilling his plan…but I had doubts,” Castiel murmurs, shutting his eyes. “I ripped up the rulebook, so to speak. I wouldn’t ever expect the author to reward me for doing so.”

“Maybe the author realized his book was stupid and outdated, and in desperate need of a sequel,” Gabriel suggest, and then rises to his feet. “I’m just pissed he didn’t stay for dinner after being gone a couple thousand years, but, y’know, such is life.”

He considers the notion that his actions—rebellion and all—were being rewarded with a second chance to live, and finds a flaw—“Why didn’t he just bring me back an angel?” he hears himself ask, before he can catch how ungrateful the words may sound. “I mean. It would have been far simpler to recharge my Grace and send me on my way.”

“Well,” Gabriel muses, offering a wry smile. “A brother of mine once said that he though God commanded us to love humans, so that we may become the likes of them. Ridiculous, right?”

Castiel finds himself smiling back, nodding. “That is ridiculous,” he says, and even means it. But the impossible has happened, so even Gabriel must give merit to the most ridiculous ideas.

“Now, _I_ personally wouldn’t give up my immortality and powers for nothing. Or a human, even if he has a plump ass just _begging_ —“

“To each his own,” Castiel bites out, trying not to burst the happy little bubble Gabriel seems to have found himself in. “I count myself lucky that God is a romantic.”

“Romantic my ass,” Gabriel mutters under his breath, expression sobering. “He isn’t a fairy godmother and this—“ he gesticulates vaguely to Castiel, “isn’t a pumpkin carriage and glass slippers. This is permanent, you and your little glow-y baby soul. Your body is one-hundred percent human and that means you’re eventually going to die. That’s not romantic at all.”

“Living forever isn’t romantic, either,” Castiel explains, “I love a human. I couldn’t possibly watch him whither away while I stay the same. Mortality is—it is terrifying. My human life will be a needle-prick compared to the span of my existence. But it will be the most meaningful, I promise.”

“Only Dad would grant the most altruistic angel in the universe a soul,” Gabriel sighs, shaking his head. “Well. If you really want the human experience, I’m guessing you don’t want to hear from me ever again.”

If Castiel is not mistaken, he senses a note of disappointment in the angel’s voice. Months ago, at the height of Castiel’s mission, he would never have envisioned the archangel to ever _want_ to see him again. Now it seems Gabriel has grown fond of him, a feat that makes Castiel sit up straighter, gaze at his _brother_ with a mirrored fondness.

“As long as you do not enlist me for a new war, you may visit as much as you want.”

A smile explodes across Gabriel’s face, and there lies a hint of mischief that makes Castiel fleetingly regret his invitation. “Geez, I can just see your little baby soul getting glow-y and warm,” Gabriel mutters, feigning disgust as he moves away from the bed. “That Winchester kid’s done a number on you. Though, I guess I must be sweet on him too, bringing his little family back.”

“So you _do_ have the power to revive them?”

“Well,” Gabriel muses, cocking his head bemusedly, “I pulled some strings for that. Human souls are much easier to play with than, you know, angel Grace.”

Castiel nods in understanding, and says, “Thank you, Gabriel. I mean it.”

“I know you do little brother.”

And then he’s gone. 

Alone in his hospital bed, Castiel swallows around the lump in his throat. The soft drip of his IV becomes a steady, consistent marker of the passage of time. He hopes that he may see all of his brothers and sisters again, under peaceful circumstances. Yet, under no circumstance, will he see Anna again. It’s that thought that pulls unseen strings in his chest, reminds him that, yes, he is really human now. There is no otherworldly cushion for the rush of emotions rising in his throat, stinging his eyes. He closes them. Behind his dark lids he sees the angry sky and souls’ light twisting above him, while Anna pushes Lucifer into an abyss that only the cursed angel was destined to see the inner working of. He hears his breath catch, a cry caught on his own lips, and wonders if she looked back before the hole captured her to keep for eternity.

Castiel can’t help it. He thrashes, pulls the needle from his arm and hisses when blood starts to ooze from the hole it left. He kneads his palm into the mess, trying to stop the bleeding. He can vaguely recognize that he is crying, based on the fuzzy vision and ragged breaths rising from his lungs, a biological response created to slow down the careless thrumming of his heart.

He _misses_ her. Misses her touch, misses her saying his name. Despite the betrayal, he misses her unlike he has ever missed anyone. His greatest friend, his most treasured sister in all of Heaven.

She saved the world. Where is her miracle?

 

* * *

 

Mary is the one that finds him in his state, and immediately calls the nurses in. They give him some sort of sedative that forces his heart to calm, his breaths to slow, all while Dean and Sam sit worriedly on the couch in the corner of the room. Weary and tired, Castiel’s head falls to its side, one ear pressed against the pillow. His eyes lock with Dean’s, and he smiles. He smiles because Dean is beautiful, that is clear even without an ability to see his soul. He shines so brightly that Castiel wants to bask in it. But that may be the medicine talking.

Mary pats an affectionate hand against Castiel’s leg, offers him a terse, worried smile. A comforting gesture, Castiel thinks, but her effortlessly loving regard toward him is comforting in and of itself. “Thank you,” he finds himself telling her. “You had no incentive to trust me, in any of this, yet you did.”

“I had more incentive than you think,” she tells him, wry and smiling softly. “But you’re welcome. And thank you, for saving my family.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I didn’t save them. Anna did.”

“You _both_ did,” she amends, and pats him again. “Sam, let’s go home. Get a change of clothes and…”

Sam doesn’t finish, but his eyes grow alight with a cheer that’s been absent since Castiel woke up. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’ll stay with Cas,” Dean volunteers, standing up and walking toward his mother. Mary touches his nose and smiles.

“That was the plan, babe.”

Dean’s face reddens and he looks away from her, finding Castiel’s eyes instead. Once Sam and Mary leave, Dean pulls a chair up close to the bed, mouth tight as if he’s debating what to say. Castiel nods encouragingly. He wants to be honest with Dean, now, wants to tell him everything. If there were enough time, Castiel would explain Creation itself, the complexities surrounding human evolution, all the wars and conquests made on Earth and in Heaven. But there isn’t enough time, and never will be in their shortened existences. _Castiel’s_ shortened existence. Every moment is so precious, he thinks, so he urges Dean to speak with his stare.

“So you’re human now,” Dean starts. 

“I am,” Castiel replies quietly, peering down into his fingers, twisted together in knots on his chest. Suddenly, he wonders if this is where the fight comes. It has been quite difficult, the past few hours, to not think of the consequences of his dishonesty with Dean and his family. He at least hoped that death would absolve him of such sins, but he is alive and (for the most part) well and it doesn’t seem _fair_ to not pay a price. “Dean, I’m sorry.”

“It’s…it’s okay.” Dean shuffles his seat forward, resting his elbows on the edge of Castiel’s bed. The proximity is unexpected, but welcomed, as he slowly untangles his fingers and lays a hand on his thigh. In perfect reach of Dean’s, if he so chooses to latch on. “I was angry, at first, obviously,” he mutters. “But…Michael, he showed me everything. Saw no use in keeping secrets since I was a willing vessel and all. I saw how long he had been manipulating you through Anna… I mean, you never brainwashed us.You did tell us the truth, as much as you could anyway.”

“You sound guilty,” Castiel interrupts when he sees that familiar stain of self-loathing tugging down at Dean’s lips. He _looks_ guilty. “I could have prevented all that, if I had been truthful.”

“Maybe, or maybe I could have prevented all that by listening to you. Giving you a chance to explain yourself.” Dean digs the heels of his palms against his shut eyelids.

_Enough,_ that is the first word that comes to Castiel’s mind as he watched Dean blame himself for something that has already come to pass. Quicker than Dean can protest, Castiel gropes for his shoulder, lays his fingers flat against the mark below his shirtsleeve. Dean lowers his hands, and opens his eyes, the depths of them endless, meaningfully watching him like he searches for something.

Castiel immediately recognizes what Dean searches for.

“It’s I who should be asking of forgiveness.” Neither of them can ignore the wonder that comes when Castiel presses harder, intentful, into the mark he left on Dean months ago. Maybe Dean hasn’t been explicitly told that Castiel burned his Grace right into him, but the soft electric hum where their touches meet tells its own story. This mark has bound them together, kept Castiel anchored when he lost touch with his purpose.

Dean covers Castiel’s hand with his own, and pulls it away, but doesn’t let go. “Look, we both fucked up,” he murmurs, pressing his lips into a tight line. “But, we’re here, you’re alive, and I _know_ you shouldn’t be. I—Michael—he felt you, so weak.”

He feels weak now, but Castiel thinks that’s just the humanity, the feeling that is bound to come when he actually _requires_ sustenance to live. He still, though, has strength to squeeze Dean’s fingers back tightly. He has no powers, but he has _the_ power that God gave him. Not a weakness—a strength. One that has always allowed his heart to go where his mind fears.

“Dean I—“

“I love you Cas,” Dean bursts out suddenly, effectively quieting Castiel. He feels the words sketch into his mind, is enraptured by the shocked yet adoring stare Dean give him. They are both stunned by the confession, one that came from Dean’s lips once before in a fit of rage and betrayal. This is how it was supposed to happen, Dean’s eyes relaxing as he leans closers, starlight in them as he licks his lips, and goes on, “I tried to complicate it before, but it isn’t complicated. I love you.”

Dean closes his mouth over his, chastity and subtly left in the wind when Castiel throws his energy into wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck, holding him tender against his chest in his bed. Somehow, they make space for two, as Dean slips beneath the sheets and his denim scruffs against Castiel’s bare legs. He shivers into the kiss, which only makes Dean kiss him deeper, more warm. Complete.

Things _are_ complicated, Castiel thinks, but _they_ don’t have to be.

 

* * *

**Christmas Eve.**

 

It’s nearly midnight, snow falling and sticking to the window’s ledge, building and building. Sam watches it, the florescent lights of the hospital glistening across the snow flakes, revealing shapes and forms that no one really notices, unless they’re just curious like Sam is. Mary smiles at her youngest son, and resists the urge to tug him close to her chest, because she cannot bare to see any modicum of life leave his eyes. Even if it’s only childlike fascination.

She instead turns her attention to her oldest son. He lay in bed, curled around Castiel, mouth pressed in the length of the boy’s neck. A month ago, she was disturbed by the thought of Dean and Castiel together. Not because Castiel is a boy, but because he is— _was_ an angel. She tolerated him, his presence, and eventually grew to…accept him. Mary was not much older than Dean when she met John. And Mary isn’t a fool, she knows what love looks like.

After some time, probably before their relationship flourished into what it is now, Mary noticed the look Dean gave Castiel. Across the dinner table, after school, at his soccer game… it was the first time Mary really thought Dean was the spitting image of his father. It was only after a moment of clarity that, no, he is the spitting image of his father _in love._

Mary rises from her seat, and gets one of the extra blankets the nurse brought in. A gift, she called it, and Mary spreads that gift across the hospital bed. She tucks Dean in like when he was just a baby, gently sifting the sheets and blanket beneath his sleeping body. And then she does the same for Castiel, being careful not to stir them.

“Goodnight, Dean,” she whispers, brushing her fingers through Dean’s hair. So soft, so innocent. She hopes Dean never loses the wonder in his eyes, the love in his heart. She finds her other hand resting against Castiel’s cheek, and he relaxes under the touch. His smile, if she didn’t know he slept, mirrors her own. He dreams, happily, and Mary will give them _that_ gift. 

Perhaps the greatest gift, is the lives they have been given. Their second chances. A new life, she hopes, they will spend wisely and together. Mary admits that she hopes Dean has Castiel for as long as Mary has John, a length of time she is sure will surpass the grave.

Castiel hums in his sleep, stirring, so Mary lets her fingers drift away from him. She leans close to Dean once more, and says with a steady wave of hope that she thought died with her younger self. She tells him, and hopes Dean hears (like she hope he heard when he was an infant) when she says, “An angel is watching over you.”

 


End file.
